XIV.

MEGA-CITY ONE

Three days had passed in what felt like sweeping blocks of time, most of them filled with long days in the car to interview and re-interview potential leads. Stephen Delaney had a fairly long roster of names to work through: friends, family, a co-worker list that hovered near triple digits. Most of them were the usual responses one expected from people who were a step removed from actually caring about someone they saw behind a cubicle or sat next to at the bar. Interviews with family members were slightly more empathetic but one thing that Chloe Decker knew about humans was that they were adept at hiding the truth. Especially when talking about the deceased. Those who have passed on were typically pedestaled as the "gone too soons" and the "lost a good ones", the memories of their accomplishments outshining any negative impacts they may have carried. Perhaps it was the living's way of dealing with their own mortality; setting the groundwork for their own imminent passing in the hopes that the good words they spoke of those that left before would somehow pass on to their own deaths.

Mrs. Delaney had been helpful even through her grief. No matter how many times Chloe or a uniformed officer would call, she was willing to open up her time to talk, tour or rummage through the stacks of things her late husband would no longer be needing. His son, Tom, had been undertaking his first year at the University of Michigan and could only provide snippets of a father who was never really home that often but still took the time to make it to all of his little league games. Co-workers had been a bit more difficult. Most claimed they only saw Stephen Delaney in passing and all had similar things to say about him: quiet, reserved, a little bit of an oddball but very kind. His immediate team described him in the same light as a man who sort of blended in to the wallpaper with his soft-spoken demeanor and department store shirts but would be the first to offer you a lift if your bus was running late or help you change a flat tire if you busted over one of the large potholes that decorated the street in front of the building. Overall, society painted him as an average American man with a stable job full of co-workers who liked him as much as one could at a mindless corporate job, a few close friends he played cards with on the weekends and a family that seemed stable enough to not warrant any red flags. So why had someone murdered Stephen Delaney?

The majority of homicides were committed by people the victim knew either intimately or at least as a passing acquaintance. Relationships breed intimacy which breed emotions that can run high in disputes or disagreements that lead to what criminologists referred to as "expressive violence" or violence that is meant to make a statement or communicate an emotion like love, hate, jealousy or resentment. But in the cases of serial killers, that became an even harder fishing line to untangle. Typically a victim profile or at least a pattern would evolve but in the cases of Delaney and Smith, they were polar opposites. What link could there be between a meek suburbanite dad and a bounty hunting bartender? One could argue, and plenty did, that the two cases were unrelated, three if you counted the barbequed remains at Rancho Park. But a grainy video at Lux a few nights before Delaney and Smith's murders proved otherwise. It was just too much of a coincidence.

So she had kept pushing forward, meeting with people who had shared coffee mugs and water cooler chatter with their deceased co-worker. The company-a mid-sized building engineering company-had been kind enough to lend Chloe and Dan their smaller conference room to interview the remainder of the names that they had on deck for today.

"Craig Watterson. You worked on a code + maintenance team with Stephen Delaney?" Chloe lifted the sheet of paper with the ten names scribbled down in blue ink and wrote Mr. Watterson's name.

"We were coordinating some projects for the upcoming year so we didn't get to work very closely but we sat around the corner from each other so I'd do the usual small talk and stuff with him." Craig fidgeted in his chair, his plaid shirt pulling tightly across his chest.

"Anything in particular you guys liked to talk about?"

"Nah, just the usual generics like the weather, plans for the weekend, baseball. Easy stuff." He shrugged. "Office stuff."

"Did Mr. Delaney ever talk about his life outside of work?"

"He'd mention his wife and kid sometimes. Had a few pictures of them tacked onto his walls next to the computer. I think his son goes to school somewhere in Michigan. Studying engineering or mechanics or something like that." He tapped his chin. "He also had some photos of buildings from all over California. Mostly the famous ones with architectural significance, sometimes we'd talk about those to pass the time."

Chloe nodded slowly. "You all work in a building engineering company, seems like a common bridge."

"Some of us work here because it's a job while others work here because they love building buildings, I suppose. Stephen seemed like the latter but he said he didn't have the math chops to cut it as an architect. I remember him mentioning that he'd do volunteer work every so often with restoration companies to help get historical sites up to code and within maintenance guidelines."

"And, did you ever see or talk with Mr. Delaney outside of work?"

"No, he mostly kept to himself. He came out to one or two happy hours but that was more than a year ago at this point. The last few months he would clock out right at five and head home, didn't really interact with people unless it was about work."

"Did you think that was weird?"

Craig shrugged again. "For those of us who've been working here a while, we just know Stephen to be...introverted. He wasn't outright strange or gave anyone the heebies, just liked to keep to himself." He sat forward in his seat. "I heard you think this is a serial killer type of situation. Like, Zodiac level serial killer."

Chloe kept her face neutral. "We want to keep the interview on track, Mr. Watterson. Now when Stephen Delaney came out to these happy hours last year, did he mostly keep to himself or was he talking with other co-workers?"

A well-manicured hand went to Craig's smooth cheek and he rubbed it absently. "Well, it's hard to remember clearly but I think he was talking to that gal from media relations, she sits a few desks down from our little cluster of cubicles. Sarah something."

"Patino?" She lifted the paper again and double checked the name.

"Yeah, Patino. They talked for a brief spell but she went home early and I only remember because she bought us all a round before she left. Otherwise, he was just hanging around making small talk with the group, mostly just listening. We shot some pool, threw some darts, you know, the usual office happy hour things." Still, his hand kept rubbing his cheek, almost as if it were rubbing out the genie of memories. "But…", his eyes squinted, "later that evening, when most of us had closed our tabs and were headed home, there was this guy...they were sitting near the far end of the bar talking."

"Someone who worked at the office?"

"Nah. Couldn't have been from the office. I've worked here for almost eight years and I recognize almost everyone who works in the building, even the janitorial staff. I'd never seen this guy before. Also, he was wearing clothes that were much too nice to be an office worker, you know?"

"Can you describe him?" Chloe sat up in her chair and pulled out the notebook from her jacket pocket. "Build, height, hair color, clothing."

Craig Watterson scrunched up his face in thought. "Ah, it was so long ago it's hard to remember exactly. Plus the guy was wearing a baseball hat that covered most of the face. It's a dive bar and the lighting is shitty, you know?"

"That's okay. Tell me the parts you can remember."

"Sure, broad-shouldered fella. Probably about six-one or six-two. Dodgers baseball hat, white collared shirt, dark slacks. Had on one of those expensive coats with the fancy checkers. You know, the nice one that comes from London."

"Burberry?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's the one. A dark blue Burberry coat. Looked sharp. Had one of those model guy chins, I remember that much. Originally thought it was his son back in town from school but this guy wasn't young enough to be college aged. Late twenties, early thirties, maybe."

"Anything that stood out about him?"

"I only noticed him briefly, mind you I was tryna hightail it outta there to get home in time for dinner. He was only there for a brief moment, had one drink then left, but…geez, I think he was carrying something under his arm when he left."

"Like what? A box? A bag?" Chloe was scribbling furiously now.

"I-I don't know. Something small. Coulda been a box. Or a newspaper. Not sure, it was just outta the corner of my eye and then he was out the door." Craig's cheeks turned red. "I'm sorry."

Chloe offered him a sympathetic smile. "Its okay, Mr. Watterson, you've been a huge help and we appreciate you taking the time to talk with us."

The man seemed to deflate in relief at her words. "Oh, no, thank you. I had forgotten all about that evening until you jogged my memory." He got up and smoothed out the front of his khakis.
"Everyone at the office is just in a tizzy about Stephen's untimely death and we want to do everything we can to help you catch the person who did this."

"Thank you, Mr. Watterson." Chloe motioned to the door. "We'll follow up if we have any additional questions."

His hand reached for the door but stopped mid-air. He hesitated then turned to the detectives. "Do you think it was someone at the office? That killed him?" Fear washed over his pale face. "I mean, if it could happen to him, it could happen to any of us, right?"

Chloe etched out a smile. "We're doing everything we can to keep all of you safe. Please give us a call if you recall anything that could be helpful, Mr. Watterson."

A thin line cracked along his mouth and he nodded tersely before exiting the room. Chloe shot Dan a raised eyebrow and motioned to the description that Craig had given them. "What do you think?"

"Hard to say, but my gut says it's not nothing."

She nodded. "Yeah, mine too. Also, he mentioned that Delaney did some volunteer work, did you get any hits on places that he spent some time doing a little pro-bono? It's a whole other roster of potential leads."

"We've got more interviewees than we've got ears, Chlo." He flapped the stack of papers with their follow-up list. "Do we really want to add another couple hundred onto that?"

"You got any better ideas?"

Sighing, Dan shook his head. "I'll give Mrs. Delaney a call."

"You've got someone waiting for you." The front desk clerk jerked his finger behind his shoulder. "Been waiting for a few minutes at your desk."

"My desk? Why didn't you have them wait in here with you, isn't that protocol?"

"I-" a blankness overtook his face. "He-he said it was-"

Chloe rolled her eyes. "Nevermind. I have a good idea why." She brushed past the gate that led into the grey-tiled floor of the bullpen. The room was in its usual state of noisiness varying anywhere from ringing cell phones, brackish conversations and Detective O'Hara's scruffy tennis ball being bounced on the floor while his other hand rifled through a stack of papers on his lap.

There hadn't been anyone at her desk when she arrived, nor had she been expecting there to be-her unannounced house guest had a knack for getting himself into places he shouldn't be. She scanned the room in slow rotation and couldn't help the non-humored smile that pulled at her mouth when she saw Lucifer's broad frame through the window of the forensics lab. Of course.

They had been huddled over a small iPad, Ella pointing excitedly at something on the screen. Chloe knocked twice but didn't wait for a response before opening the door. A song she had heard extensively on the radio welcomed her as she stiffly stood in the room with her hands in her jean pockets.

Ella looked up and shot her a lopsided smile. "Chloe! Can you believe that Lucifer has never seen a TikTok?"

"To be fair, I didn't get a mobile phone until last year." He balked.

"It exposes your age."

He nodded. "I'm ancient."

Chloe cleared her throat, still feeling like a third wheel. "You said you needed to see me?"

"Right." He held up his finger and grabbed a thick legal envelope that was sitting near one of the computers. "I came by to give this to you."

"And what is that exactly?" She took the outstretched packet and noted the brief passing of apprehension that overtook his face.

"Everything. Or...at least close to everything."

A hard lump took residence in her throat. "Everything. As in everything everything."

"As much as everything could fit into one folder. The rest…", he briefly shot his eyes over to Ella who was suddenly very interested in a set of vials near the tablet, "the rest I want you to hear it from me. Meet me later tonight."

"As long as you won't be sending me any Lucifer-appropriate outfits to wear this time."

A sly smile. "You could show up in anything or nothing and I wouldn't mind one bit."

Those familiar flutters of alien feelings bubbled back up into the pit of her stomach. Memories of her shaky fingers brushing against the skin of his chest. She hated them, hated what it possibly meant but didn't push them away. "Okay." It was all she was capable of croaking out. He studied her face for a few more seconds before leaving the room, the faint trail of his aftershave lingering in the small, stark room.

"Okay, I coudn't've been the only one who felt that insane tension." Ella plunked down the rack of vials with a small clatter. "What's the deal?"

"There is none. We're sort of...figuring things out. With our partnership. That's all."

"Riiiight. You've both got some major Romeo and Juliet vibes going on."

Chloe clutched the envelope to her chest. "You know how that play ends, right?"

"Of course, but don't most things end in tragedy?"

"Jesus, Ella, that's dark."

A thick silence hung between them for a moment before they both burst out laughing. And just like that, they were friends again. The sickening stone of doubt lifted from Ella's shoulders as did David Ruiz's spiteful words from a few days ago.

"I'm glad you're here, Chloe. I wanted to show you something." The scientist walked over to her laptop and motioned to a column of numbers and figures all coded in a scientific language that went over Chloe's head. "So we got the blood sample analysis for Gio Arretxea. Everything looked pretty good all the way down, except…", here she hesitated, sure that the Detective would think she was loca por cocoa puffs because her own mind couldn't quite understand the implications either, "the counts on some of these are...weird."

"Weird, how? Like, they don't match up or he's got a genetic disease?"

"Um, as in this blood from Gio Arrextea is showing up as biologically female with no history of gender affirmation or hormone therapy. But that's not a medical impossibility, what's concerning is when I went back through his med history-all the way up until he immigrated over from Basque country-and his blood type…well, it's completely different from the sample we had from the night at the library."

"Was the sample incorrectly collected? Maybe it got contaminated somehow. That's happened before."

"No, we would have seen two distinctly different sets of markers. This is, some would say, a straight up miracle if you were the religious type."

"And what if I'm not the religious type?"

"Well, outside of a hefty bone marrow transplant or extenuating conditions like cancer, it'd be a fracking scientific improbability way up there with sentient androids and teleportation devices."

Chloe squeezed her eyes shut. "Okay. So. What does this mean? Medical anomalies and probabilities aside, where does this put us with the case?"

"I don't know where to put it, Chloe. It's like...it's like a metamorphosis or something. That's the only thing I can compare it to, you know? Caterpillar, chrysalis, butterfly. That kind of thing."

"Are you implying that he…" she trailed off, unsure of exactly what they were theorizing. Because there was no fucking way. Her mind simply would not allow it to exist.

"I'm not implying anything yet. Just...it's the first image that keeps flashing in my head when I try to put an explanation to all of it." Ella Lopez lifted the finger of her right hand and made a fist with the other. "On one side you have the pupa," she wiggled her finger, "then it undergoes an intense outfit change," she then pumped her fist rapidly, "to finally emerge as its adult form, the butterfly." Her fist opened into a palm and she waved the extended fingers in the air. "Except with Gio it's like it's happening on the inside. I wonder if he's ever had any long bouts of hospitalization or sleep; a rest period where cataclysmic changes were happening at an alarming rate."

Chloe stood still for a long while, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She knew that what Ella was talking about was improbable and quite likely impossible. There existed at least one explanation for the dramatic change in Arretxea's blood. Human error, clerical mistakes, comedy level hijinks where samples get swapped because the protagonist fuckup played by Adam Sandler was too busy chasing skirt. Anything but the thought that one's insides could liquify into a goopy mess and come out the other end as something different. Or someone different. She shook her head at the terrifying prospect. "Okay, I gotta get some intel on where our friend Gio might be hiding out. Let me know if you come across any med cases where something similar may have happened. The more we understand about this…(changeling)...condition, the better."

Ella nodded tersely. "I'll get right on it, boss. Don't forget your love note." She held out the packet that Chloe had placed near the keyboard, a mischievous smirk outlining her lips.

Chloe rolled her eyes and snatched the white envelope from the young woman's hands. She had the urge to sit at her desk and look through what Lucifer had defined as "everything" (well, almost everything). What juicy tidbits would she find? Birth certificates? Commercial leases? Fifth grade report cards? But a quick scan of her phone lock screen showed that she was already running late to her next interview.

The traffic was mercifully light for being so close to punch out time for office drones in downtown LA. Soon enough, Pershing Square was fading in her rear view mirror and she pulled onto 8th street, cutting her engine a few driveways down from a fading white house that had definitely seen better years. It was the same crank house she had come to all those nights ago looking for the same nitwit that she was looking for now. The Bernards had done a pretty good job in the art of laying low-Joel and his wife didn't so much as leave a mouse dropping behind-but their wayward son Robbie? Well, old habits died hard, didn't they? It was hard to be a ghost when you had a hungry monkey on your back. Her phone vibrated on the passenger seat and she picked it up on the third ring. A contact she had made last year-info in exchange for a minor bout of blind eye-had called her earlier to let her know that Robbie had come out of hibernation and was making his rounds today. Getting his score so that he could crawl back to wherever roaches like him hid away when the shit got a little too sloppy. He was on the phone now, letting her know that Robbie had slithered his way into his favorite den not more than five minutes ago. She cut the engine to the rental she was starting to think of as her new squad car, and palmed the white envelope that had sat under her phone. It had made her nervous on the drive over to 8th street, having this packet that contained the makings of a man who liked to share so much of himself but remained a firm mystery. Would it somehow taint the fantasy version of Lucifer Morningstar once all his warts and morning breath were laid bare for her eyes to see?

She couldn't stop the slight tremble of her hands as she pulled out a set of file folders. The first contained items that she had easily found in their initial dive: driver's license info, registration, business and liquor licenses, LLCs. She rifled through them quickly, scanning the pages for anything that she may have missed the first time around. Nothing. The second set was much thicker, more unwieldy, and she had to hold the bottom of the folder to prevent a few oddly shaped envelopes from falling onto her lap. Packets of papers each as thick as her pinky were neatly held together with black binder clips and she soon realized that they were purchase agreements for multi-million dollar properties scattered throughout California, New York, Colorado and a few smatterings overseas. The daunting financials (so many zeros and commas!) made Chloe wonder just how wealthy Lucifer actually was. Sure he was rich-everything about him made one fully aware-but was he edging into billionaire Lex Luthor status? And weren't billionaires always evil? She combed through the stacks looking for anything with his financial records, more to satiate her own curiosity than for any investigative purposes. Wedged between Austria and Aspen, she came across a dusty grey envelope, its corners slightly worn. The paper was soft under her fingers as she plucked it out, turning it over carefully; it was unmarked except for two tiny smears of rusty red that ran over the seal on either side. A small shudder overtook her as her thumb ran over one of the smears and under the lip of the flap. Inside were two sheafs of paper folded with laser-line precision. The first sheet was an overview of a joint LLC between one Lucifer Morningstar and Dean Cooper. Fifth Trumpet. The second was handwritten on a piece of thick, voluptuous paper titled: Sunset Clause and was dated from two years ago. It outlined an agreement that in the event of either of their deaths, the full shares of Fifth Trumpet would carry over to the remaining partner. In the event of both of their deaths, the assets listed under the LLC would be bequeathed to the next of kin. On the bottom, scribbled in the same shade of rusty red as the smears on the envelope were the signatures of Morningstar and Cooper followed by two blotchy thumbprints. A blood contract. Signed and sealed with life. She stared at the thumbprints for a while, the gears in her head spinning along at a good clip as she tried to put it all together: Fifth Trumpet, Dean Cooper, Gio Arretxea, Stephen Delaney, Jacob Bono Holloway. All these men vying for power, for control, for some sort of legacy that didn't make much sense to Chloe. At least, not right now. Because she was still the observer, the detective. Because this was a world in which she didn't belong. Wasn't allowed to belong. She was called when it all went to shit; when someone needed to clean up the messes left behind the burning smokestacks of their own hubris.

And speaking of self-imposed arrogance. The front door to the shabby house opened and amidst a hazy spill of afternoon sun, Robbie Bernard emerged like a rotting corpse from a den of earth, ready to eat brains and listlessly moan around town. He had lost weight since she had last seen him a few weeks ago at the modeling agency, his once kempt hair now hung limply in dirty stringing messes, framing a face that seemed to be wearing a Halloween mask of Frankenstein's monster. Life as a ghost seemed painfully literal for the young man and Chloe felt a pang of sympathy. Addictions were no joke and Robert Claude Bernard was living with a real heavy one. He briefly closed his eyes at the top of the porch steps, taking in the brief interlude with the sun before he would slink back into his hovel of papered windows and damp, stinking blankets. Or maybe the rich had nicer dens to enjoy the spoils of disassociation. Wouldn't that be nice?

She quickly stuffed the folders back into the legal envelope and got out of the car. The young man was busy on his phone by the time she sidled up next to him, eliciting a small yelp of surprise when she clamped down on his bony shoulder. "Robbie, I've been looking everywhere for you."

His eyes still held the haziness of whatever he had taken inside the house but slow recognition bloomed. "Aw, no. I wasn't doing nothing. Swear. On man Jesus."

"You're already on parole for possession. Doesn't look good that you're coming out of a well-known crank den. Not to mention that your friend Gio is wanted for attempted murder." She squeezed his shoulder, hard.

"Owwww! I don't know anything about Gio or him tryna cap someone! My dad called to say I had to lay low, that's all, never told me nothing about why, man, I told you that he doesn't tell me nothing. Nothing."

"Listen Robbie, playing dumb got you this far but the bullshit ends now. I'm done giving you free passes because you're a junked out kid who needs a whole lot of help. Your guy Gio tried to kill me, Robbie, you understand? He tried to fucking kill me and now I want to know where I can find him."

Tears were starting to pool in the corners of his eyes. "Why you always gotta pick on me, huh? I'm not doing anything, just tryna score a little dope to help me get through the day and you always gotta pick on the little guy, huh? Get your rocks off on pushing around a shithead doper like me!" His bottom lip wavered under his front teeth, making a loud quivering sound not unlike a certain dying deer in a forest many miles and many years from where they stood.

Chloe's resolve quivered along with his lip, tendrils of uncertainty creeping along the lines of her heart. Guys like Robbie were always gonna be the first line of defense no matter which side of the line you stood on, because guys like Robert Bernard were the weakest. Maybe they were the types who got bullied when they were younger or they picked up a nasty bug or two along the path towards adulthood but regardless of how they got there, they were the ones crooks and cops dug around for when it came time for reaping. Cause they had those visible fault lines, the cracks left behind by societal negligence, unkind upbringings, mental illnesses or addictions. The kind of fissures that one could pry their fingernails into and, without much force, pop open to get to the juicy tidbits that lay inside. It was predatory. It was conniving. It was Life. "Come with me, Robbie."

Horror filled his ghoulish features, stretching his skin tight across cheekbones that were now much too sharp for his face. "Please! Please! You don't understand! This is my last strikeout! If I get locked up, they're gonna leave me in there for good!" He started to back away but Chloe's hand remained firm on his shoulder. "I'll die in there, man. If not from the big fuckers who run the joint then from the withdrawal. Please." The tears spilled over then, small and thin as though his body weren't able to spare the loss of moisture. And maybe that was the truth because Robbie looked like a curled leaf on the brink of blowing up into dust. The kind that you see while trudging through a thicket of red and gold maples vibrant with the colors of fall, the kind you see in the bright sunny spots where the sun-eternal life giver-sapped all the vigor and left nothing but husks of life. Grey-brown leaves crinkled into gnarled hands, their sounds hollow and high as your boots crunched over their remains. Here stood one of those leaves, his body contorted under the sun as her own boot stood on his neck, ready to crush his dried remains. It was him or her. "Robert Bernard, I'm not going to ask twice." She pulled him towards her and grabbed him by the back of his dingy green sweatshirt.

He had gone limp then. Still on his feet, still willing them to shuffle forward to wherever she was leading him, but all the remaining vigor had been sapped from him. The boot had come down. It had given Chloe a sudden rash of goosebumps. She stowed him away in the back seat of her rental car slash squad car slash mom-mobile and hesitated another moment before shutting the door and sliding back behind the driver's seat.

"Y'all are on some Judge Dredd shit, you know that? Acting as judge, jury and executioner all under the guise of civility and duty. Thinking you're doing good by the citizens of LA when all you are are crooks with badges. You think you make a difference, officer? Cleaning up these mean streets while keeping your handler's hands clean. 'You know what LA is, Dredd? It's a fucking meat gringer. People go in one end, and meat comes out the other. All you fucking pigs do is turn the handle'." His voice was monotonous. Robotic.

She flicked her gaze to the rearview mirror and briefly met Robbie's eyes. They were spiteful but in the faraway space of wherever junkies went when they were really riding the wave. She hadn't understood the Judge Dredd references, having never seen the movies, but thought the words rang some truth; she had thought them herself from time to time but, of course, never aloud. In the end, it all felt pointless. Chasing criminals and solving cases, putting away people who couldn't be a part of society. But there was always too much work. Too much to put away that even if you grabbed it by the handful, by the armful even, it wasn't enough. Because the machine was hungry. And as much as Chloe wanted to believe that they were saving and protecting and nurturing the voiceless and helpless, in the end, it was all just one big sausage.