The car was a cheap rental from the airport with no frills or special features. It did have a CD player, the one amenity she valued above power windows or fuel efficiency. The woman pushed a burned CD in and waited for it to load. Manuel Medrano's voice filled the car, crackling with the dying speakers. The car jittered and bounced on occasional potholes and the CD skipped each time. She sang along quietly with a softly accented voice.
Her face was round, her cheeks plump. Black, thick hair was knotted in a messy bun on top of her head, strands flying loose each time she turned her head. Her eyes were the same color, almond-shaped and brightly expressive. Every time she smiled at the music, crinkles appeared near her temples and in between her eyebrows. A strong worry line stretched down the center of her eyebrows, giving her a wizened countenance.
She pulled into the parking lot of a simple motel with no more than fifty rooms. In the backpack next to her, a soft chime resonated. She dug a small hand through the various items strewn through the bag, sighing as the search lasted longer than she wanted. She pulled free a small flip cell phone and swung the top open to view the message. The smile lines across her face eased into bare crevices, all hints of pleasure gone. She clacked the phone closed and exited the car, dragging the backpack with her.
She looked up when the motel bell rang as she entered what passed for a lobby. The room was ten by ten feet, barely big enough for the two fabric chairs and sad weeping fig in the corner. It likely hadn't been watered in weeks. Most of the leaves had hardened into brown little crinkles scattered around the plant in a sad circle of botanical despair.
She turned away from the wilted display when a clerk appeared behind the bulletproof glass shield separating him from the dangers of a shoddy motel's clientele. He was young, perhaps not even twenty, with bright green hair raised in prominent spikes down the center of his head. Her smile returned, delighted at the style. She spoke in quick, enunciated Spanglish, pointing at his head.
"¡Pero que cool ese pelo!" That hair is so cool!
He beamed proudly at her praise, slipping into accented Spanish as he sorted her room. She rummaged through the backpack and offered a Colombian passport for his review, along with cash for the room. Her name, Mariana Gómez, sat next to her photographed blank expression, date of birth, and various other forms of narrowing her exact identify down to an assortment of letters and numbers.
She smiled kindly throughout the exchange, even offering a generous tip for his kindness. He repaid her by gently returning the excess money and then launching into a tourist-educated explanation of American tipping customs.
"Ah, sí, ya veo." She paused, taking a moment to gather her thoughts. "I see now," she said with a thick accent. The clerk – Felix, according to his name tag – held out an electronic key card and wished her a pleasant stay. She'd booked three nights for the cheapest rate, which gave her a room with a bed, a bathroom, and a TV which worked about thirty percent of the time.
She walked back out to her car and pulled into the space right in front of her home for the next few days. The backpack was draped over a single shoulder. She pulled a single suitcase from the back seat of the car, ignoring the trunk for now. The room opened after three tries with the key card, her grunt of irritation and increased pressure against the sensor finally forcing the red light to switch to green.
The bedding was scratchy and faded, the walls stained in odd locations and various colors. The carpet was a nightmare of crisscrossed lines and dirt, some intended and some left from previous occupants. She set her suitcase on the single chair in the room and tossed the backpack onto the bed. She was already itching to leave, but she needed to get ready first.
Preparation for the night was a relatively simple affair. Her packing was neat and compressed, only the bare essentials and plenty of room in the suitcase for souvenirs. She unpacked a cream, flowing sleeveless dress with red flowers sparsely patterned along the entire print. It was summery and fun, and it swished when she walked. She enjoyed these kinds of simple pleasures, taking advantage when she could.
The shoes were cream wedges to match the dress. Together they comprised the most expensive bits of her available wardrobe. Tonight was a night to look at least somewhat formal, but also practical. She had a goal in mind; there was a reason she had come to Los Angeles.
It was nearly midnight. LUX would be open for a few more hours.
She stepped into the bathroom to freshen up from the airport travel. A splash of foundation, a smudge of blush, two swipes of eyeliner, and a deep red lip gloss transformed her from a jetlagged traveler into a young woman looking for fun. She pulled down her messy bun and shook out her thick hair, letting it fall into a glossy black blanket across her shoulders. She pinned the hair up on either side with cream pins with red flowers as the accents. Everything matched; everything was ready. She stared at herself in the mirror, dressed up, ready to leave. Her arms were exposed in this dress, the muscles tightly corded when she flexed them.
She stepped back into the room and pulled a red clutch from her suitcase. She fumbled a bit with the final addition to her ensemble, sliding it neatly into the clutch.
She called a taxi using the room phone and pulled enough cash out for both the ride, a generous tip, and the cover charge for the club. It would take at least fifteen minutes for the cab to pick her up, so she pulled her research out from her backpack again, spreading it across the bed. A picture of Lucifer Morningstar pulled from a quick Google search; pictures of the exterior and interior of LUX; carefully hand-written notes detailing the favors she'd managed to discover through those same quick web searches. The man wasn't subtle about granting favors, and some who received them weren't either.
She reread her notes while waiting for her cab, tapping a finger against the edge of the topmost picture. She'd memorized the look of him weeks ago, before setting herself on this mission to approach him. She was ready to explain if needed – a sister, a ransom, Colombian politics and the FARC. It terrified her to think of how close she was to ending this. Would he be kind? Would he understand? How much would he need to know? He had a reputation outside of favors which made her skin shiver. How much would he ask in return?
She swept the papers into the palm of her right hand and tore them straight down the center – once, twice. She unbundled the now-thicker sheafs and tore them again, and again, until a small pile of paper remained. The room phone rang. She answered, listened, and hung up. Her cab was waiting.
She poured the slivers of notes and photos into her clutch along with the money. The phone remained in the room, along with the backpack. Tonight was about unburdening herself.
"LUX, por favor," she told the cab driver. The man nodded and pointed up, a universal symbol of got it, then pulled out from the lot. She cracked the window once they reached the highway and dropped clumps of the torn paper through the slit, scattering her notes into the night.
Her skin felt tight. They were close now. She could see the building looming in the distance, proud against the murky Los Angeles skyline. She missed the stars.
She was dropped off right at the entrance, though the line started at least a half-block down. She tipped the driver anyway, thanking him for the trip, and paused outside of the wide entrance. Her eyes widened as she tipped her head back, music flowing outside to the street. The lights, the volume, the people – she bit her lip, the picture of overwhelmed. A breeze kicked up from a passing car, her dress whispering delicately around her calves and thighs. A bouncer spotted her and waved his hand to catch her eye. She looked young and lost; he gestured for her to approach.
"You can go in," he said. His hand swept her through as she beamed her gratitude. She rooted through her purse and presented the cover charge in cash; he shook his head, similarly kind as Felix in the motel, and pressed her back gently.
"Pasa," he said. Go ahead.
"Gracias." She touched his shoulder in thanks, smile lines enhanced. He nodded and returned to his work while she stepped into the club and froze in the entrance.
The music was louder, the lights flashing. A stairway separated the entrance from the club proper; she stepped aside to let others pass her by, scanning the crowd. She needn't have bothered. He was in the center, at the piano, playing a lively tune and fully animated. There had been several videos of him on YouTube and other sites, recorded by patrons on camera phones of varied quality. Now she watched him perform live, no more than fifty feet away, and her heart pounded in time with the staccato beat.
She descended the stairs and pushed herself into the closest to a corner she could find, tucked behind a small bar top and next to the end of a couch. She watched with the others, rapt by the performance, by the sheer life flooding out from his fingers into the air surrounding them all. He was energy, he was excitement, he was likely very high.
She clenched her fingers tight on the clasp of her clutch. She thought she could lose her nerve if she waited too long. She would approach, as soon as he finished – just as soon as –
The song ended with a flourish and a round of inebriated cheers. He saluted his patrons, spinning in a circle, both hands raised in joy. The comedown took several minutes as he spoke with patrons, flirted, accepted a finger of bourbon which he quickly finished, only to be replaced by another three. It was nearly twenty minutes before he approached the bar itself, speaking quickly with the bartender in a raucous voice. He wasn't one to hide.
She looked across the club and saw no one else approaching him for now, though many kept him in their sites. His reputation for favors was only overshadowed by his sexual exploits. Her skin shivered.
Would he be kind?
She walked closer now, dodging through the crowd. She was small and swift, able to cut around and through gaps in the crowd. When she reached his back, the top of her head barely reached the center of his chest. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, anxious to interrupt a conversation she only partially understood.
"Señor Morningstar," she said to his back. If he heard her, he ignored her. She stepped to the side so that the bartender could see her. She bit her lip again, shuffling her weight, terribly nervous and painfully shy. The bartender pointed over his shoulder and he turned, eyes sparkling with mischief and drink. His suit was tailored to perfection, a small gray pocket square peeking from the blue fabric. His hair was messy with sweat and spirits, ruffled from the recent performance, and the fourth finger of bourbon was nearly gone already.
His smile scorched across her, setting her skin ablaze with gooseflesh. He took her in from head to toe, pausing in all the spots which quickened her breath.
"My my, mamita," he purred. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Necesito ayuda," she said quickly, her voice low. I need help. He paused while bringing the glass to his lips, eyes dancing with mirth.
"Ah," he said. "¿Con que?" With what?
She shifted from foot to foot, her eyes darting around the bustling crowd.
"¿Podemos hablar arriba?" Can we speak upstairs?
His eyes gentled enough that the gooseflesh stopped burning. Her fear was palpable, her shyness irresistible. His smile curled into a kinder expression, and he nodded.
"Por supuesto, ¿señorita..?" Of course, Miss..?"
"Mariana." She offered a hand to shake, and he delicately brought it to his lips.
"Mariana," he said with that same gentleness. The drink and drugs seemed all but gone now, his eyes clear and focused. She bit her lip and followed as he led her to the stairs again, this time turning toward an elevator.
"Gracias, Señor Morningstar," she said. Her relief made her feel dizzy; she stumbled a moment on the steps, uncertain in her wedges. He righted her with a hand on her arm, which shifted to the small of her back as they approached the double doors. He pressed the button and smiled down at her.
"Llámame Lucifer, si quieres," he said. Call me Lucifer, if you want. The elevator pinged a moment later, and they stepped through the opened doors. She ran a finger across the clasp of her clutch, nerves starting to win out. A slight tremble shot through her hands as she unlatched the small metal link, just opening the clutch. The elevator rose swiftly. He had it serviced often; it was the primary way in or out of his penthouse.
They reached the top in a few silent moments. She wondered what he thought she might need. What might have brought this shy, scared young woman to his club to ask for help and beg to speak in private. He had no lock on the elevator; he had no doors in the penthouse. Everything was open, honest, forthcoming. He might have secrets, but he lived publicly.
She took a breath through her nose, out through her mouth. The doors popped open with a ping. Her eyes shone when he looked down at her. She could see he wanted to help; she could see that whatever she asked, he would try to give her. He stepped out of the elevator and clapped his hands, turning for the massive bar to the left.
"Ya," he said, turning to meet her eyes "¡entonces! Que de-" Now then! What do you de–
She drew the gun and fired twice. Once in the center mass, right for the heart; the second for the head, above his eyes, dead center to blow out the brain. He fell, of course, because what else could he do? Her eyes shone brightly as she pressed the button to return to the club. The smell of gunfire drifted powerfully in the elevator cab. Her eyes watered. When the doors opened to the bottom floor, she stepped out and across, heading for the entrance and the Los Angeles night.
She never looked back.
In the penthouse, two bullets clinked against the ground on either side of a prone figure. Twelve full seconds passed before his eyes flew open and he gasped loudly, sucking in as much air as he could in a sudden shock of consciousness. His eyelids fluttered in confusion, then annoyance, then –
"Bloody hell," Lucifer snarled. He sat up and grabbed at the front of his suit jacket, poking a hole through yet another ruined three piece. He hadn't even been on a case this time, and he found this terribly unfair. At least when he knew there might be bullets flying, he could plan his wardrobe accordingly. Today, though, the Detective hadn't needed him as she caught up on paperwork, and so he'd planned for a night in, such as it was.
And now, of course, he had a crime to solve, didn't he? His own attempted murder! He considered calling the Detective – but no, she was swooning over that plank of wood Pierce – and besides, how would he explain two bullets and no wounds? She wouldn't believe him if he told her the truth. And if all he had were spent bullets, she couldn't make a theory from that anyway.
He called the lift back, just to be certain Mariana hadn't left any obvious evidence. If that was even her name! The little minx had fooled him – oh, she had downright deceived, playing to her trembling gender and pleading eyes. He'd be offended if he weren't so impressed. Now, though, he had to find her and set the record straight. She'd tried to kill him, would have succeeded had the Detective been near enough. She'd at least earned a stern talking to. It was lucky the Detective was the opposite of spontaneous. If she had been here tonight, poof! All of Amenadiel's past dreams come true.
He was grumpy, and he had a headache now. A double tap, honestly. The hole in his tailored Kiton was bad enough, but she had to add a migraine to the mix. And now his lift smelled of gunsmoke, noxious and sharp and he needed a whiskey, now.
He staggered once, his feet uncertain as his head pounded. His fingers traced against his forehead, irritation adding to the pain there. Knives were so much easier; they just snapped with enough force. He considered adding a sign to the interior of the lift: Assassins, please use knives! It was only polite.
He drank one glass, two, several. He rubbed a hand over his face, considering his options. He could ignore the whole affair. He was the only one who knew what had just happened, outside of a very small, very devious woman. She was efficient, too – no hesitation on that one, just pop pop and Bob's your uncle.
He could ignore it, yes, pretend that nothing happened tonight, pretend that he hadn't been bamboozled by a minx in a summer dress. He preferred this solution as it suited his own personal need to never speak of this again. But there was no justice in that, was there? And besides, if she learned she'd failed, she might try again. She might try again when the Detective was near, and she might not care about things like collateral damage.
She might succeed, too, but he wasn't nearly so concerned about that.
So no, he couldn't ignore this. This needed to be addressed, investigated, solved before he could move on with his life and find a way to accept the new wooden board the Detective insisted on calling a fiancé. And no, he couldn't accept it, but he had to, didn't he? The Detective deserved to make her own choices – her own terrible, horrible, unspeakably bad choices – and he would support her and smile and what had she been thinking?
No, he couldn't ignore this. He needed answers. He needed to know why Mariana wanted to kill him, and he needed to know why the Detective made the choices she did, and he supposed he needed to know if he was still a walking target, but really, why did she say yes?
He sighed.
So then, a case it was! Without the Detective. Because for one, he couldn't explain the bullets – and for two, he couldn't trust her judgement. She was so intelligent most of the time! He supposed even the most brilliant humans sometimes found blocks of granite fascinating. There was a whole field dedicated to the science of rocks, and belatedly he wondered why Cain had never taken it up. He and the other bores of the world could quibble for hours on the benefits of sediment. Clearly he'd missed his calling.
Lucifer left the bullets where they fell, uncertain if their placement might be important. He pulled out his phone and dialed, foot tapping impatiently, fingers drumming the bar. Ms. Lopez answered on the third ring, her voice sloppy with sleep. He beamed.
"Ah, Miss Lopez! Thank you for answering. Yes, yes, everything is quite fine – well, no, it's not fine, but it's fine – well anyway, I need a favor again. Utmost discretion, yes – there's two bullets to look at. No, no hiking to freaky grave-sites I'm afraid. Excellent. I'll be waiting."
He hung up and looked down at the two offending bullets, shining dully in the light of the penthouse. Miss Lopez would be here within the hour. Until then, he intended to drink.
