NEW CONSTANTINE BOARD: Hey, if any of you guys are interest, DayDreamer731, Van Fanel's Soulmate, Zelda (not so much from this fandom), and yours truly have started a Constantine fanfic board. http // daydreamer731 . proboards46 . com / index . cgi (w/o the spaces, o'course).
This board will be really great once we get more members and really get rolling, so come on guys, join! You don't JUST have to discuss Constantine, there's a section for pointless randomness and an area for other discussion of and fics for other fandoms as well! So come on, join:P

A/N1: HELP REQUESTED! Hey guys, if anyone knows anything about homicide investigations, how long it takes, what kind of evidence is gathered, etc, it would be much appreciated if you told me! Otherwise writing this is evil, and the less I know, the longer it'll take me to update. O.o I don't even know till how late at night they work. And if anything in here doesn't sound right, point it out to me and why and I'll fix it.

A/N2: Note on John's history: I didn't get any of his history from the "Hellblazer" graphic novels, with the exception of some of his family life. It's all made up, Cane, the whole lot. Just thought I'd clear that up, though you'll have to wait for the next chapter for any of that to really mean anything. :P

A/N3: La, here is Part Uno (well Dos if you count the initial crime scene bit) of the investigation, and John's meeting with a new Beeman (sorta). Sadly, no John/Angela in here. You guys have to wait a while. Quite a while, maybe, depending on how I organize the chap.s, but I guarantee y'all, it'll be worth the wait. This chapter, for one, is pretty long, and I'm hoping well to your liking. The next one will be substantially shorter,and the one after that, I'm not sure.So, R&R! 'Member, reviews encourage me to update faster! ;-) Critique encouraged!

Me: (Grumbles) Why can't I know more about how homicide investigations work?
Angela: Just be thankful you've never been a part of one.
John: I can fix that.
Angela: John!
John: (Smirk)
Me: (squeak!)

Investigation and Negotiation

When Angela came into work early that morning, she hid her rather disturbed state as best as she was able. She forced a smile and spoke as infrequently as possible, and only her partner, Xavier Weiss, seemed to notice. Even he gave up on trying to pry it out of her, however; they had work to do. And when it came down to it, to the real work of finding the slaughterer of Alicia Bennet, she was at it faster and more thoroughly than the worst, most efficient OCD patient in the world. Monk, eat your heart out.

The coroner's exam hadn't been completed (or even started) as of yet, and the results of the autopsy were expected sometime within the next two days, depending on how active the various murderers and half-breed influencers of LA had been. Consequently, today, Angela and Weiss were going around and beginning their questioning of friends, family, neighbors: anyone connected to the victim. Those around the crime scene had already been spoken to, and in the absence of required follow-ups, these law-abiding, peaceful citizens would not be bothered again, for all the good questioning them had done in the first place. One spotting of a Caucasian male, age, appearance, and attire unknown, was all the detectives got from those near the alleyway. Nonetheless, as tiny as this clue was, it was still a start. Possibly.

Detectives Weiss and Dodson began to interview. It turned out Alicia had just started going to school again, after taking some time off to work in her chosen field of study: psychology. She'd already received her Bachelor's; now only the Master's was left. She'd been going for a degree in Social Work. This girl had just started to get her life together, and it had been rudely snatched from her.

It didn't justsicken Angela,it pissed her off.

"Did your daughter ever mention anyone bothering her? An older man, maybe?" Angela asked the parents, Stuart and Claire Bennet, sitting together on the white, flower-printed couch before her and Xavier.

The young woman's mother, putting on a brave front even though her hand was shaking as it clasped the heart-shaped, golden locket around her neck, shook her head. "No, no one," her aged, trembling voice responded. "Every-everyone one loves her. No one would want to hurt our baby. Oh God, who'd want to hurt 'Licia? Who'd want-who'd want to hurt our baby?"

The woman choked back a sob, burrowing into her tall husband's side and the warm softness of his tweed coat, taking comfort in having him near and in the arm that he had wrapped snugly around her. She'd reverted to a child-like state, seeking out solace in a hug. Angela wasn't even sure if the fact that it was her husband providing the solace instead of some random acquaintance made any sort of significant difference. She hoped it did.

She looked frail, this Claire Bennet, emaciated even, under the long, loose fabric of her white nightgown. It was as if the death of her daughter had killed a part of her as well, a part not only emotional but physical as well.

It was obvious the news hadn't even sunk in yet for the poor woman; it was obvious that she was expecting her daughter to come traipsing through the door at any moment, telling her mother how huge of a mistake had been made. She'd never died; it had just been a coma, a severe one. But she was fine, perfect, completely, utterly fine.

Sadly enough, it was not to be.

God and the Devil didn't work that way.

"Claire, why don't you go lie down?" her husband, his kindly, brown eyes and professor-like features betraying his sorrow, whispered into his wife's graying blond hair. "I'll join you in a minute."

The woman was in no shape to resist, and did what she was told without complaint, as pliant as a Bendy Wendy doll. Mrs. Bennet got up, her arms wrapped about herself now that his were gone. She dragged her slippered-feet along the floor, covered by a thin, built-in mud-brown rug, and through the doorway at the far side of the room, directly across from the entrance to the apartment. All their money had gone into helping Alicia—even the large apartment Alicia had grown up in—so they didn't exactly live in a palace. The wooden barrier shut tight behind Mrs. Bennet, leaving the woman to her painful solitude until her husband entered to share it with her. But even then, Angela feared the woman would still be alone. Something in her eyes, in the way they were clouded and didn't focus, in the way she spoke and moved and acted with the self-motivation of a dozing druggie. She was lost, and Angela wasn't sure she would ever find her way again. Angela wasn't even sure the woman would be around for much longer, for, whether it was medically possible or not, people like her did die of grief.

It was something both Angela and Xavier, as well as any other man or woman on the force, had seen far too often. Hell, even just once was too often, yet it happened again and again.

"We're very sorry for your loss," Weiss called after her, the words sounding hollow even to him. It didn't even seem to register. In fact, it probably hadn't, and he knew it. But what else could he do?

Her only child, her pride and joy, her mark on the world… dead. Gone, forever. What could you say to someone like that?

The husband seemed to be better off at the moment, able to speak, but give them both a few months, and who knew? In Weiss's opinion, perhaps to let it all out early was better. But maybe he was being an optimist. Both he and his partner knew that it was just as likely that neither the mother nor the father would ever recover, though they might put on a good show before blasting their brains out with a handgun.

Hopefully, it wouldn't come to that for them.

"The man you asked about," Mr. Bennet said, the moment his wife was out of earshot, "there was someone. A teacher at her school, I think. I don't know which one. Was it… I think it was B-something, maybe? Maybe… God, I can't remember…"

Under other circumstances, the timing of his words would have seemed suspicious, but at the moment… At the moment, with his wife in such a state, he was obviously terrified that any mention of a possible murderer from him would send her not just off the deep end but to the very bottom of the pool, where the sickeningly chlorinated, clear blue water would fill her lungs and drown her in a sea of forced sterilization.

They would question her more later, to see if her testimony corroborated her husband's. And in the meanwhile, this seemed like the first concrete lead they had, discounting Dameon.

"Was she having problems with him?" Angela asked.

"I think so. All Alicia would say was that—" His voice cracked, but he swallowed and tried again. "That he'd make her feel uncomfortable, that he acted in a very… a very unbefitting manner. I told her—I told her, if he tried anything, to call me. To call the police. To just… Could he have done it, could he have… have done this to my girl?" He couldn't even say it; he couldn't even say the "k" word.

"We're looking into all possible leads," Weiss answered, carefully steering around the question. He couldn't say anything that would come back to haunt them later.

"We'll get the man who did this," Angela said, not only to reassure the grieving father, but because they would.

And although they couldn't make any promises, this professor from the University seemed like a good candidate for the murderer. If they were lucky, he'd be the one; they'd be able to stop him before he killed anyone else. This was good, such an early lead. Very good. With any luck, it would pan out, but neither Angela nor Xavier would allow themselves to rely on this. It was far too early in the case; they didn't even have the autopsy or CSI reports yet.

They were visiting Alicia's best friend next. Hopefully, she'd be able to tell them the name of this stalker professor.

"A professor bothering her?" Cindy, short for Cinderella—her parents were eccentric and had liked certain leaves and substances a little too much, once upon a time—asked, her brow furrowed together.

"Yes, did she ever mention it?" Angela asked.

Cindy absentmindedly brushed a strand of strawberry blond hair behind her ear, thinking. "Not that I can remember. At least, I don't think…" She trailed off, looked down at the scuffed floorboards of her small apartment before looking back up at the female detective. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her voice was quiet and strained. It seemed she could hardly bear to think; it seemed she'd forgotten how to, for her own sanity. Had she not, she would have been in absolutely no condition to talk to the police. She would have been in absolutely no condition to help catch her best friend's killer.

"You don't think?" Angela pressed.

"Well, she did sort of, once. But he wasn't really her professor."

"Anyone you can think of is helpful," Weiss assured her.

"Michael Braddock," she said. "He told us he worked there, but he wasn't a member of the faculty, really. He was just an aide, and a pretty bad one. He wasn't even in any of our classes, but he kind of… he kind of came onto 'Licia a few times. Got into her personal space. You don't think he—you don't think he could've done this?"

"It's possible," Angela told her. "We're still looking into all leads." Even supernatural ones.

Detectives Dodson and Weiss stood outside the apartment door of a Michael S. Braddock, having just rung the doorbell.

A minute or two passed, and Angela rang again. Still no answer.

"Hello, Mr. Braddock?" Angela called and knocked on the door.

"Mr. Braddock, police!" Weiss called through the door.

Still no answer.

The pair looked at each other.

"Think he's hiding?" Weiss asked.

"Maybe," Angela responded. She tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

The two looked at each other, and they were about to speak when the doorway across the hall opened and a young woman in her early to mid thirties with dyed red hair pulled back in a ponytail, pale, freckled skin, and too much makeup peeked out. It was apparent she'd heard them banging away at the Braddock's door and had looked out to investigate and sate her curiosity, for she wasn't even fully dressed, wearing only a yellow bathrobe. The two detectives turned to face her.

"Are you two looking for Michael?" she asked, her form hidden behind the door, which was held shut by a safety chain.

"Do you know where he is?" Xavier asked.

Angela took out her badge, showed it. "We just need to ask him a few questions."

"Well, he's not here," she informed them.

"Could you tell us when he might be back?"

Braddock's neighbor shook her head. "No idea. All I know is he went off on vacation a week ago. S'posed to be gone for a few more days, I think."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

"Are we sure she's not protecting him?" Angela asked later, once they were a sufficient distance away from the woman's apartment.

"Let's ask around," Weiss responded.

And they did, and from those who actually knew something, they got the same response: He'd left five days earlier, and he was going to be gone three or four more.

"He still could have done it," Weiss said. "Say he's leaving, kill the girl, lay low, fly away. It's almost foolproof."

"Yeah," Angela replied, but she was beginning to have her doubts, even if this did make him seem all the more suspicious. When the airline told them that, indeed, Michael Braddock had made his flight eight days ago, and no more since then, these doubts intensified. True, he could have booked another flight with cash, and come and gone that way, but somehow she didn't think so…

It was still very possible he'd been responsible for the crime. Very possible. But Angela was beginning to think they were on the wrong track, and more and more she yearned to learn more from Dameon.

John Constantine stood outside of a sixth-floor apartment on the upper-side of Los Angeles. The brass number on the door, 663, was just three short of being rather ironic.

Although not a very smart place to live with all the earthquakes the area experienced, this building was nonetheless one of the nicer places to live, and could only be afforded by the rather well off. Especially these upper-level suites.

This was certainly not a place Constantine was used to finding himself in.

Of course Cane, that legendary, eccentric, deceased man, would have a baby sister living in a place like this. Before he'd died that fateful day several years ago, he'd always spoken of his darling sibling, who put up with him and tried oh so very hard to get involved in things far too big for her. He'd always spoken of how she didn't have a shred of special abilities to her name, but how she strived to be a help—or a nuisance—anyway. He'd always spoken with her "foolishness," as he called it, with the most loving tenderness.

Back then, Cane had said that his sister lived in South Carolina. Apparently, she'd relocated.

Beside the door was a white doorbell, and John pressed it, causing a buzzing sound to reverberate throughout the apartment. If Midnite had been telling the truth, he was expected. After all, he was only a few minutes late.

After a short while, footsteps could be heard coming towards the door, and then a deadbolt was unlocked and the doorknob turned. The freshly painted peach-tan door swung inward as far as the security chain would allow, revealing the face of a dark, surfer-girl type woman. She was tall, around 5'8", with cerulean eyes that gave off the illusion of glowing out of the well-tanned skin. Her dirty blond hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, her hair stopping just above the nape of her neck in this style, and a tight, sleeveless, camouflage shirt and black running pants were present on her well-toned figure. From the pale, blue towel around her neck and the light sheen of sweat across her face and arms, it was obvious she'd been exercising.

"Yeah?" she said as a greeting, cocking one eyebrow. This was not exactly what John was expecting. She looked absolutely nothing Cane, who, although also tan, had had green eyes, dark brown hair, and thick, heavy features.

"Are you Carolyn Minnow?" he asked, the last name pronounced like that of the sea creature. He'd learned that the hard was from Cane, once upon a time.

The woman grimaced. "Please, call me Lynn. And I mean that. Please, Lynn." Her voice had a distinct Southern accent.

For a moment, the door closed in his face, and he could hear the chain being slid out of its socket. Soon, the door swung open completely, revealing the 32-year old woman.

She did not look 32.

"John Constantine, I presume," she smiled, and stepped back. "Please, come in."

He stepped past her, giving her only a passing glance as he made his way into the room. "And if I'm not?"

"Then I guess I'm screwed, and I don't really appreciate that without my permission."

John said nothing, only gave her a look. All righty then.

The room he entered—only one of five—was spacious: the living room. There was a neon orange couch set against the middle of the lefthand wall, an armchair of the same color directly beside it to John's left. A huge, flatscreen plasma TV was placed on the peach wall directly across from the couch. Two small tables were placed on opposite sides of the couch, a lamp with an apricot shade set on each. Why these lamps were necessary, however, John was having trouble figuring out, since the overhead light on the ceiling was turned on and providing more than enough illumination.

In front of the sofa was a round, freshly polished coffee table, and books—thick, academic-looking volumes—and magazines like People and Cosmopolitan littered its surface. A used glass and plate shared the landscape as well.

On the far wall was a loveseat, part of the same set as the rest of the furniture, and directly behind it and somewhat to the sides were two large windows, shades drawn up and windows open to the abnormally crisp darkness. The distant wail of a police siren floated in along with the fresh night air, yet, by far, the most prominent noise was the upbeat techno music floating in through the doorway beside the television.

Constantine felt as if he'd entered the house of the Little Old Lady who lived in the Fruit Orchard.

Carolyn—or Lynn, as she preferred to be called—shut the door and turned, smiling widely as she leaned against the door, her arms crossed across her chest. She drew one leg up to rest the foot against the door as well.

"So, I hear you're in need of a scholar-smuggler-supplier."

He turned to face her fully. "For the moment."

She let out a breath of air in an almost-laugh and walked past him, splaying herself down on one end of her citrusy couch. "Please, sit. I won't bite." Her eyes moved downward towards his feet, and she grimaced, looking him in the eyes once more. "I'd appreciate it if you took those shoes of yours off, first, though. I rather like my rug peachy-fresh."

Oh yes, this was most definitely the sister of the eccentric, mildly unstable, long-dead Cane.

Constantine smirked, looked down at his shoes, and ignoring her request, he sat down on the opposite end of the couch.

She looked at him with incredulity, her face one-third disbelief, one-third annoyance, and one-third anger. "Well aren't you the picture of manners," she commented sarcastically.

"I don't see a mark on your carpet," he replied, not at all afraid to make eye contact.

Lynn's annoyance grew, but she held it in check.

"So just what can I do for you, Mr. Constantine?" she asked, changing the subject and getting back to the matter at hand.

The techno music from the next room continued to play, and though it both distracted and vexed John somewhat, he ignored it. Instead, he took out his pack of nicotine gum and took out a piece, popping it into his mouth.

"Like you said, I'm in need of someone with certain talents I hear you possess."

"You mean being a bookworm with connections?"

"Something like that."

"Then I suppose I'd be your girl." Lynn drew her legs up and folded them underneath herself, rotating her body 90 degrees to face him. "So what are you offering?"

"Not so fast," he responded. "First, what are your qualifications?"

She cocked an eyebrow. "Does fluency in French, Italian, Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and God knows what other dead languages count? How about more money than I know what to do with?"

Huh… sounded good.

John was impressed, although he couldn't be sure she was telling the truth.

"Can you prove it?"

"Mais oui, monsieur. Ce n'est pas difficile."

John recognized her words as, indeed, French, but that proved nothing.

"I'll need more than that."

"And I would be delighted to provide such."

"What about the Bible, both of them? And the Balance, the Rules? Know anything about them?"

She looked at him as if he were especially special among a roomful of special. She looked at him as if he had an IQ in the negatives.

"Um, yes. Obviously."

Cocky girl.

"So you can See?" He already knew the answer to this, but he asked anyway, to test her honesty.

Her expression shifted instantly, and Lynn gave a nervous smile and averted her eyes downward for a moment. "I was waiting for that. No, I'm afraid I'm blind as Ray Charles in that respect. But Cane wasn't, and believe you me, I learned a lot from him. I learned a lot myself."

Good, she wasn't a liar or a con artist, like he could easily be. Very good. This meant she could very easily be trustworthy.

John proceeded to test her on the some of the basics—half-breeds, Midnite's, even basic Christian knowledge—and she passed with flying colors. He asked about her contacts, suppliers of relics and artifacts. Her list, obscure but in a believable way, was substantial.

Eventually, the two came to the most important aspect of every job: the salary.

Assuming she was being truthful about all of her qualifications that was.

"Two hundred," was his initial offer.

Her answer was simple.

"Per month, correct? Er, no."

"No?"

"I'm not cheap, Constantine."

"Two-ten."

"Nope."

Oh, for the love of…

"Two-thirty."

"Try three-fifty."

"Three-fifty," he repeated skeptically.

"That's what I said."

"I own a bowling alley," he told her, thereby informing her of his sole source of income.

Not counting relics he sold, that was. And not counting more than a few cons he pulled off.

"Yeah, and I'm filthy rich and own nada but this apartment and my ass. Sucks to be you, doesn't it?" You had to love inheritances.

John thought it over for a minute. "Fine, three-fifty."

She cocked her head, as if contemplating. "Three-fifty, three-fifty… hmmm…" It was then that Carolyn burst out laughing, bending over from the force of her amusement. It took her a few minutes to compose herself, because every moment it seemed as if she'd calmed down, she'd look him and a fresh onslaught of giggling would seize her. She was like a preteen girl with a secret.

John didn't bother to watch her this whole time and turned away at some point, towards the television and windows, waiting for this to stop. Did he really have to put up with this shit? It was irritating.

"Sorry, sorry," she managed at last, and thereby drew his attention back to her. She managed to suppress all but a few final chuckles. "Constantine, you always were one of Cane's favorites."

Gee, well wasn't that good to know. Especially since it was very much his fault that Cane, along with the others, had died.

"I'm rolling in cash; does it look like I need three-fifty a month?" He said nothing, but kept his eyes on hers. "What was that you said at first? Two hundred? Make that two-fifteen, and you have yourself a deal there, sonny-boy. After all, I don't do charity cases, funny ones or no."

Barely any time passed before he responded. "Deal."

The two stood and she offered her hand; they shook on it.

MrSConstantine: Lol, aw, and I so wanted a stalker. :P And thank ya, I'm glad you like. Hope you liked this one too. (Huggles Chas and Constantine) No disses to 'em whatsoever. I luvvle 'em, just… not in a Chastine way. O.o

Evelyn: (Huggles the Angela) Stalking half-breeds are evil. Literally. O.o And yes, John and Angela are funny and in semi-denial, but they're KEWT. :P And Midnite is fun to write as well… as is listening to the Constantine soundtrack period. Love it, though I wish "Passive" (the song from the club) was on it.

DayDreamer: LOL! You've hit the underplot of my fic on the head… Angela… is… stupid… (I love you, Angie! Angela: (Glare) ) You know, I never even thought of that sensing thing, tho' that could have been cute… Damn, it would've been fun to write too, if only it could have worked. Lol Eh, don't worry, you'll get plenty of John/Angela fluff and smut. Hell, you already got some of it, woman!

fanficgeek: Eh, don't worry about it. That's how I tried to link to my freewebs website originally. O.o And I watched the videos already. I love 'em. Where's heraldtalia and her reviewing self? I want to tell her how great those vids are!
Thank ya on the descriptions. I'm trying hard on those. O.o Glad to know I'm doing a good job. As always, if anything isn't working somehow, just tell me!

Vagrant: I'm here to amuse. :P Hehehe mysterious plot twists… (Shifty eyes)

SlvrBldRain: Thank ya. XD Aw sad, no detailed rant, tho'. ;-) And Cane… well, he was mentioned briefly at the end of chapter 3, one of those killed that day when everything sorta feel apart. Sorry, I know I didn't really mention him much before. (Just the once, in fact.)

Miyo86: Gippalai! (Dances) I'm happy my fic continues to be good. :D And I'm sorry about the waiting! I wish I could speed it up for you:P But I need time for feedback and editing and hw. ;-)