Burke slides a photo across the desk. There's a girl in the picture. She's
in her early twenties, strawberry blonde, and looks like a supermodel.
She's smiling so hard I can't believe I'm not blinded.
Owens is sitting next to me. He wolf-whistles, "Do we have her number?"
Burke gives him a dirty look, but Owens is too used to it to care. I memorise the face and then slide the photo to Owens.
"For you," I tell him, but I say it as though he is going to be doing something dirty with it later. Daniel Owens just grins. I know this is how he and Jack used to converse. Now I am doing it, because I am Jack. I am still not used to that concept.
"Who is she?" I ask Burke the Boss.
"Fred Masters girlfriend."
"No shit!?" How does Fred Masters end up with a girl like that? "She's half his age!" Burke just shrugs. I think he's given up being surprised by people. I've lived a lot longer than he has, I should have given up too.
"She's the last person to see Masters," he says.
"So you want us to go see her." Burke shrugs and nods. He's a man of few words. He hasn't exactly told us very much.
"Did Masters have money?" I ask. I want to know this before I go and question his girlfriend. I want to know if Don Burke thinks she killed Masters for the money.
"I have more money than he did." That is saying something. We are paid poor pittance.
So I am standing outside the apartment of Janette Hastings. Daniel Owens is standing next to me. A part of me wishes it was Warren. He is slightly more classy than Owens. I don't know what Warren is doing.
Janette Hastings is on the fourth floor. She opens the door and blinks at us through bleary, bed eyes. She is dressed in a pink fuzzy robe. It's 1pm in the afternoon and she has been sleeping.
"Police," says Owens, and flashes his badge. I find mine too and show her but she is already letting us in. She leads us into the lounge on the right. The room is done in purple and white. It is colour coordinated.
I can picture blood splayed across the room's perfectness. It would look almost like modern art. I shouldn't be doing that.
There is a full bar at the end of the room. The fireplace is decorated in a small tasteful piece of christmas tinsel. The furniture is too good for someone who is only about 22. Everything is too snazzy. How she can afford all this I would love to know.
She catches me looking and says defensively, "So I'm a stripper." That explains the late night. It might even explain why she's dating Fred Masters. The deceased Fred Masters. I don't know yet.
"Do you know why we're here Ms. Hastings?" I ask her. Owens sits in a royal purple plush sofa and I sit next to him. We haven't been offered coffee yet. I want to be offered coffee.
Janette looks across at me with those puffy eyes. Oh shit she's been crying. I don't know what to do with crying. Please oh please Ms. Hastings keep it together.
"Fred is dead," she says. Her lower lip quivers. The statement rhymes and it sounds funny coming out of her mouth. I almost want to laugh again but that would not look good. Besides I am not really happy.
"We came to talk to you about your husband Ms. Hastings."
"Fred and I weren't married." I know that. She looks confused. I am testing. I am hoping she'll explain their relationship further but she doesn't. I sound so cold and formal. It's just death. I have seen death a lot. Even Jack is cut off.
"You were the last person reported to have seen him alive." For just a few seconds Janette Hastings blinks in surprise. Fortunately I have caught it.
"Oh," she says, "he left here at eleven."
"What time did he get here."
"Five." She starts to blush and even that looks pretty on Janette Hastings. It takes me a minute to figure out why she is blushing. She's hoping I'm not going to ask what they were doing. She's hoping I won't ask because they were fucking.
A bright red starts creeping up my skin too. I know it because I can feel it. Shit. I am an angel of death and I am blushing because a stripper had sex with her boyfriend. What is wrong with me?
Owens looks at me and I have to cover my embarrassment. He'll never let me live this down.
"Was Mr. Masters aware of the work that you do?" I ask Janette.
She frowns, "Yes." She's still not giving me anything. She's giving me too little, enough to make me suspicious.
"Was he. happy with your choice of profession?" I have to pry further. Maybe she'll snap. I am trying to break a grieving woman. Obviously, as a demon, I have come far. Not.
"Pardon?" Janette is starting to look angry, but she's keeping it in well. She doesn't like what I'm insinuating either. If I change tact quickly, I can confuse her. Too many questions at once and maybe she'll let something slip. Like what she knows about who Fred went to visit after 11pm last night.
"There's a significant age difference between you and your boyfriend Ms. Hastings."
"There's nothing wrong with that!" Nope. Not even. Each their own. But I am going to find the thing that killed Fred Masters, and if Janette Hastings knows anything, then hell, no mercy.
"C'mon Jack give the girl a break." I know what Owens is doing. He is playing good cop bad cop. Guess which one I am. I am an angel of death. It is only fitting.
I change tact again. It looks like Owens has temporarily gotten me to behave. "Do you know of anyone who may have had a grudge against your boyfriend?" Janette holds her dislike of me at bay and takes the time to think about it. What a saint.
"I don't know anyone who would want to hurt Freddie," she says, "Except."
"Except what Ms. Hastings?"
"I have a stalker." She reveals it as though she is finally letting a weight off her back. Maybe she has told no one. Maybe he has threatened her about going to the police. Maybe she's just a little drama queen. Maybe there isn't even a stalker. I can't read her well enough. I think she is telling the truth.
Janette is angry. "You don't have to look so bloody disappointed that it isn't me," she accuses.
"I did not mean to give such a look," I apologise. It sounds hollow even in my ears.
"Tell us more about your stalker Janette." Owens comforts the girl. I glare at him because I want to be the good cop. I am mature for a three thousand year old demon.
Janette sniffs and her eyes brim over with tears. So much for keeping it together. "He's been following me for about a month," she confesses, "I don't know what he looks like, but I get calls, and letters. He knows where I've been, what I've done, who I'm with." She doesn't ask us for help though. I find that interesting.
"Did you keep any of the letters Janette." She looks at me strangely because I'm not supposed to call her by her first name. That's right, I'm the bad cop, I forgot. As if.
"Yeah." She gets up and leaves the room to get us the letters. I think Owens took a perve at her cleavage. I throw him a disgusted look and he has the grace to appear sheepish. Is this what I was fighting for?
"Want to ask her what strip club she works for while you're at it?" Teasing Owens should be in my job description.
"Jealous Jack?" Owens shoots back with a smile.
"I prefer Fred, remember." Janette reenters the room. I think she heard my last statement. She has one of those looks on her face. I am not doing a very good job of making myself liked. What's new huh?
She sits back in her one man sofa and thrusts a small pile of papers at me over the coffee table. Interesting that she hands them to me, even though she doesn't like me. I am in charge, and Owens is there for comforting. So she thinks.
I shuffle through the letters. Owens has gotten up and perched himself on the arm of Janette's chair. He passes her a box of tissues. Janette murmurs a thankyou and dabs one at her eyes. Black masquara has rimmed them into dark puddles. If she wasn't wearing pink she would look gothic. I can't imagine her actually blowing her nose on a tissue. The action and the accompanying noise is too ungraceful, undignified, for beautiful Janette Hastings.
The letters are typed. There will be no handwriting analysis. They are frighteningly cold. Handwriting is warm, personal. Print is not.
The first one says, "God doesn't love you." That is all. No threat, no explanation, nothing. It is printed on a piece of folded card. There is no date, and no envelope. It was probably tossed out.
The second one says: God doesn't love you, and now you die. From no threat to death threat. He's left no time for foreplay. Geez I am twisted.
There are three more and they gradually get more violent. God doesn't love you. But I do. I will cut you open until the seas bleed with your life blood. Ok, I am not that twisted.
I put the cards down on the coffee table. Face down.
"Why haven't you contacted the police about this before?" I ask her. Janette dabs her eyes.
"I don't know. I guess I hoped he would go away. I didn't take it seriously at first. I mean, you saw the first letter. The guy is a loony." Yeah I saw the first letter. If she didn't take it seriously, why does she still have it? Most people throw out the first letter. Didn't you know?
"You said he sometimes calls you?"
"Yes." We can organise to tap her phone and trace any future calls. I am taking this seriously. I think Janette is purposely providing us with a suspect, but I cannot afford to be wrong.
And besides, the words of the letters are haunting me. God doesn't love you. I know who is obsessed with God.
We are.
Owens is sitting next to me. He wolf-whistles, "Do we have her number?"
Burke gives him a dirty look, but Owens is too used to it to care. I memorise the face and then slide the photo to Owens.
"For you," I tell him, but I say it as though he is going to be doing something dirty with it later. Daniel Owens just grins. I know this is how he and Jack used to converse. Now I am doing it, because I am Jack. I am still not used to that concept.
"Who is she?" I ask Burke the Boss.
"Fred Masters girlfriend."
"No shit!?" How does Fred Masters end up with a girl like that? "She's half his age!" Burke just shrugs. I think he's given up being surprised by people. I've lived a lot longer than he has, I should have given up too.
"She's the last person to see Masters," he says.
"So you want us to go see her." Burke shrugs and nods. He's a man of few words. He hasn't exactly told us very much.
"Did Masters have money?" I ask. I want to know this before I go and question his girlfriend. I want to know if Don Burke thinks she killed Masters for the money.
"I have more money than he did." That is saying something. We are paid poor pittance.
So I am standing outside the apartment of Janette Hastings. Daniel Owens is standing next to me. A part of me wishes it was Warren. He is slightly more classy than Owens. I don't know what Warren is doing.
Janette Hastings is on the fourth floor. She opens the door and blinks at us through bleary, bed eyes. She is dressed in a pink fuzzy robe. It's 1pm in the afternoon and she has been sleeping.
"Police," says Owens, and flashes his badge. I find mine too and show her but she is already letting us in. She leads us into the lounge on the right. The room is done in purple and white. It is colour coordinated.
I can picture blood splayed across the room's perfectness. It would look almost like modern art. I shouldn't be doing that.
There is a full bar at the end of the room. The fireplace is decorated in a small tasteful piece of christmas tinsel. The furniture is too good for someone who is only about 22. Everything is too snazzy. How she can afford all this I would love to know.
She catches me looking and says defensively, "So I'm a stripper." That explains the late night. It might even explain why she's dating Fred Masters. The deceased Fred Masters. I don't know yet.
"Do you know why we're here Ms. Hastings?" I ask her. Owens sits in a royal purple plush sofa and I sit next to him. We haven't been offered coffee yet. I want to be offered coffee.
Janette looks across at me with those puffy eyes. Oh shit she's been crying. I don't know what to do with crying. Please oh please Ms. Hastings keep it together.
"Fred is dead," she says. Her lower lip quivers. The statement rhymes and it sounds funny coming out of her mouth. I almost want to laugh again but that would not look good. Besides I am not really happy.
"We came to talk to you about your husband Ms. Hastings."
"Fred and I weren't married." I know that. She looks confused. I am testing. I am hoping she'll explain their relationship further but she doesn't. I sound so cold and formal. It's just death. I have seen death a lot. Even Jack is cut off.
"You were the last person reported to have seen him alive." For just a few seconds Janette Hastings blinks in surprise. Fortunately I have caught it.
"Oh," she says, "he left here at eleven."
"What time did he get here."
"Five." She starts to blush and even that looks pretty on Janette Hastings. It takes me a minute to figure out why she is blushing. She's hoping I'm not going to ask what they were doing. She's hoping I won't ask because they were fucking.
A bright red starts creeping up my skin too. I know it because I can feel it. Shit. I am an angel of death and I am blushing because a stripper had sex with her boyfriend. What is wrong with me?
Owens looks at me and I have to cover my embarrassment. He'll never let me live this down.
"Was Mr. Masters aware of the work that you do?" I ask Janette.
She frowns, "Yes." She's still not giving me anything. She's giving me too little, enough to make me suspicious.
"Was he. happy with your choice of profession?" I have to pry further. Maybe she'll snap. I am trying to break a grieving woman. Obviously, as a demon, I have come far. Not.
"Pardon?" Janette is starting to look angry, but she's keeping it in well. She doesn't like what I'm insinuating either. If I change tact quickly, I can confuse her. Too many questions at once and maybe she'll let something slip. Like what she knows about who Fred went to visit after 11pm last night.
"There's a significant age difference between you and your boyfriend Ms. Hastings."
"There's nothing wrong with that!" Nope. Not even. Each their own. But I am going to find the thing that killed Fred Masters, and if Janette Hastings knows anything, then hell, no mercy.
"C'mon Jack give the girl a break." I know what Owens is doing. He is playing good cop bad cop. Guess which one I am. I am an angel of death. It is only fitting.
I change tact again. It looks like Owens has temporarily gotten me to behave. "Do you know of anyone who may have had a grudge against your boyfriend?" Janette holds her dislike of me at bay and takes the time to think about it. What a saint.
"I don't know anyone who would want to hurt Freddie," she says, "Except."
"Except what Ms. Hastings?"
"I have a stalker." She reveals it as though she is finally letting a weight off her back. Maybe she has told no one. Maybe he has threatened her about going to the police. Maybe she's just a little drama queen. Maybe there isn't even a stalker. I can't read her well enough. I think she is telling the truth.
Janette is angry. "You don't have to look so bloody disappointed that it isn't me," she accuses.
"I did not mean to give such a look," I apologise. It sounds hollow even in my ears.
"Tell us more about your stalker Janette." Owens comforts the girl. I glare at him because I want to be the good cop. I am mature for a three thousand year old demon.
Janette sniffs and her eyes brim over with tears. So much for keeping it together. "He's been following me for about a month," she confesses, "I don't know what he looks like, but I get calls, and letters. He knows where I've been, what I've done, who I'm with." She doesn't ask us for help though. I find that interesting.
"Did you keep any of the letters Janette." She looks at me strangely because I'm not supposed to call her by her first name. That's right, I'm the bad cop, I forgot. As if.
"Yeah." She gets up and leaves the room to get us the letters. I think Owens took a perve at her cleavage. I throw him a disgusted look and he has the grace to appear sheepish. Is this what I was fighting for?
"Want to ask her what strip club she works for while you're at it?" Teasing Owens should be in my job description.
"Jealous Jack?" Owens shoots back with a smile.
"I prefer Fred, remember." Janette reenters the room. I think she heard my last statement. She has one of those looks on her face. I am not doing a very good job of making myself liked. What's new huh?
She sits back in her one man sofa and thrusts a small pile of papers at me over the coffee table. Interesting that she hands them to me, even though she doesn't like me. I am in charge, and Owens is there for comforting. So she thinks.
I shuffle through the letters. Owens has gotten up and perched himself on the arm of Janette's chair. He passes her a box of tissues. Janette murmurs a thankyou and dabs one at her eyes. Black masquara has rimmed them into dark puddles. If she wasn't wearing pink she would look gothic. I can't imagine her actually blowing her nose on a tissue. The action and the accompanying noise is too ungraceful, undignified, for beautiful Janette Hastings.
The letters are typed. There will be no handwriting analysis. They are frighteningly cold. Handwriting is warm, personal. Print is not.
The first one says, "God doesn't love you." That is all. No threat, no explanation, nothing. It is printed on a piece of folded card. There is no date, and no envelope. It was probably tossed out.
The second one says: God doesn't love you, and now you die. From no threat to death threat. He's left no time for foreplay. Geez I am twisted.
There are three more and they gradually get more violent. God doesn't love you. But I do. I will cut you open until the seas bleed with your life blood. Ok, I am not that twisted.
I put the cards down on the coffee table. Face down.
"Why haven't you contacted the police about this before?" I ask her. Janette dabs her eyes.
"I don't know. I guess I hoped he would go away. I didn't take it seriously at first. I mean, you saw the first letter. The guy is a loony." Yeah I saw the first letter. If she didn't take it seriously, why does she still have it? Most people throw out the first letter. Didn't you know?
"You said he sometimes calls you?"
"Yes." We can organise to tap her phone and trace any future calls. I am taking this seriously. I think Janette is purposely providing us with a suspect, but I cannot afford to be wrong.
And besides, the words of the letters are haunting me. God doesn't love you. I know who is obsessed with God.
We are.