Angel - Shakedown Part 9

"Excuse me?" Doyle said.

"To help you make those great leaps of logic."

"And I suppose you can do better?"

"Well, let's see. First of all, the Tremblors have already attacked a firefighter and someone who lives underground-two for two in terms of what they're after. That suggests they know what they're doing.

Second, the one I fought waited until I stumbled upon it. That plus this attack suggests waiting is part of the Tremblor's natural strategy. And even though the Tremblor that attacked me was fairly quick, I can't see something made of rock having an impatient personality. . . ."

Angel began walking back toward the car. "The firehouse is staffed twenty-four hours a day, and right next door; if something erupted out of the earth and grabbed her, she'd at least have time to scream. No one heard a thing."

"So whatdidhappen?" Doyle asked, following him.

"I don't know. Maybe it drugged her, hypnotizedher or something. We don't have enough information at this point to tell."

They got into the car. "Where to?" Doyle asked.

"Fisca's apartment. Maybe the victims are linked together in another way, one that could help us figure out who's next."

Baasalt led the female by the hand. She came willingly, a happy smile on her face. The spores emitted by the sensory tuber were psychoactive in a very special way-they took their victim back to his or her happiest time, a time when they were safe and trusting. Baasalt could clearly see the difference in her lifeline; her body was here, but her mind had cast itself backward. Such a state made her extremely suggestible-Baasalt didn't even have to speak to her mind. He simply made a beckoning gesture with his hand, and her own thoughts filled in the details.

He was glad it had been easy. One never knew what would happen when dealing with the Void, or those who lived in it.

"So this is where she lived," Doyle said.

The apartment was s.p.a.cious and well-furnished; apparently L.A. firefighters made decent wages.

Security was less than impressive, though-Doyle had managed to pick the lock in under a minute.

Angel glanced around. Bookshelves, framed art posters, leather couch with matching chair. A television, a stereo, a rack of CDs and videotapes. A coffee table with a few magazines on it. Nothing that jumped out and said, "I'm going to be kidnapped by underground monsters!"

"Hey, you think she'll mind if I eat this?" Doyle said, his head in the refrigerator. "As an advance thank-you for rescuin' her, and all."

Angel walked into the bedroom. The double bed was unmade, heaps of clothes lying on the floor.

There was a computer on a desk against one wall; he pulled out the chair, sat down and turned on the power.

It didn't seem to be encrypted in any way, so he had a look through her files. She was working on a novel, had a stash of Victorian erotic literature and a collection of flight simulator games. Angel found her address list and scanned through it.

The name was near the end, of course. It caught Angel's eye as he scrolled past, and he immediately stopped and backed up.

"Doyle," he called out. "I think I've found something."

Doyle walked in, a half-eaten submarine sandwichin one hand and a beer in the other. "Yeah? What's that?"

"A name," Angel said. "A very familiar name."

He pointed at the screen. It was two names, actually.

Wolfram and Hart.

CHAPTER FIVE.

Wolframand Hart was a name Angel knew well. They were an L.A. law firm, one whose clientele leaned heavily toward the demonic-in the worst sense of the word. He'd faced off against them before, and barely survived the experience.

By the time Angel and Doyle were done searching the apartment, it was almost dawn; they found nothing else that seemed important. They drove back to the office, and Angel retired to his own place downstairs to get some sleep.

It was a long time coming. He tried to concentrate on the case, but his mind kept drifting back to Lisbon, back to the ruins of the church, back to Maria.

Back to what he finally imposed on her.

"Morning, Angel," Cordelia called out as he stepped off the freight elevator. "Or afternoon, I guess.

There's coffee."

"Coffee is good," Angel muttered, walking into the office. He poured himself a cup. "Where's Doyle?"

"Out getting lunch, for those of us who chew our food."

Angel sank into an office chair, but didn't reply.

"What, is that like a disgusting concept to you now? Putting stuff in your mouth and chomping on it until it's all mushy and mixed together, then swallowing-euuw, suddenly I'm not hungry anymore. Thanks a lot."

"Sorry. I didn't sleep well."

"Doyle says you found a connection to Wolfram and Hart. Whatisit with those creeps-are they trying to corner the market on evil or something?"

"Or something," Angel agreed. "I don't know how they're involved yet-they were in one of the victims' address files."

"Oh, and that cop lady dropped by with some information. She said to give you this." Cordelia picked up an envelope and handed it to Angel.

The front door opened and Doyle came in, a brown paper bag under one arm. "I see the big guy's up.

Cordy, I hope tandoori's okay."

"You can have mine. Mr. Sunshine here just spoiled my appet.i.te."

Doyle set the paper bag down on the desk. "What's in the envelope?"

"Something from Kate." Angel opened it up and took out a thick sheaf of paper. "Looks like a printout on missing persons. She's listed all the ones in the last six months that might be Tremblor victims."

"Not that you told her that," Cordelia said.

"Of course not."

"So whatdidyou tell her?" Doyle asked, unpacking the contents of the paper bag.

"Just that it was a case I was working on," Angel said, studying the printout.

"Pretty big favor for such a vague reason," Doyle commented.

"She must be a very nice person," Cordelia said.

"Just likes to help people," Doyle agreed.

"For absolutelynoreward, of course."

"Other than a feelin' of mutual self-respect for a fellow detective."

"That'sjustwhat I was going to say."

Angel sighed and put down the printout. "Okay, okay. I promised I'd take her out for dinner."

"As long as you don'thaveher for dinner," Cordelia said. "But you wouldn't do that unless you turned evil, and that wouldn't happen unless youexperienced actual happiness, which is usually anapres-dinner kind of thing."

"Unless the appetizers arereallyoutstandin'." Doyle opened a foil container and the smell of curry wafted out.

"By the way-isn't this a cool outfit?" Cordelia extended her arms and spun around. The dress was tight and black and had holes cut in unusual places.

"Very nice."

"And expensive," Doyle added.

"I take it Maureen paid for the clothes?" Angel asked.

"She insisted. Who was I to say no? She could have gone all snaky on me or something."

"I'm sure you held out as long as you could. How did things go otherwise?"

"Oh, we had a great time. Well, therewasthat ugly incident with the hamster at the pet store, but she said her blood sugar was low."

"She ate a hamster?" Doyle said. He paused with a forkful of curry halfway to his mouth.

"You aresogullible. Honestly, Angel, she was perfectly normal. We got along great, and she's really nice.

I mean, ifIhad as much money as she did, nowayI'd hang with someone like me. Not until I'd done a few movies, anyway."

"That . . . almost made sense," Angel said. "ButI'd still like to know a little more about all the Serpentene."

"I'm gonna take another shot at findin' Graedeker on my own," Doyle said. "Could be he's got some way of sensin' when somebody's actually down on their luck, as opposed t'just lookin' t'talk to him."

"You're down on your luck?" Angel asked.

"I will be once I blow my rent money at the track."

"Again, very close to actual sense," Angel said. "Shopping and gambling, two of the pillars of detective work. Myself, I think I'm going to try something unusual."

"And what would that be?" Doyle asked around a mouthful of tandoori.

"Looking for clues. You may have heard the phrase at some point . . ."

Angel spent the afternoon in his office, poring over Kate's printout. She'd scrawledGood Luckacross the top, and as he looked through the reports he saw why.

The problem was that the parameters he'd given her-people connected to air, earth, or water- were too broad. Did someone who lived on Granite Street count as someone close to earth? Was a washing-machine repairman close to water? It was all too subjective.

He finally laid out a map of L.A. on the floor and stuck a red pin where Fisca had been taken. It didn't really accomplish much, but it made him feel like a detective.

The phone rang in the outer office. Cordelia answered.

"h.e.l.lo, Angel Investigations-we help the helpless. Yes, he's here. Just a sec. Angel! It's Kate."

He picked up his phone. "Yes?"

"Angel. Something just came in you might be interested in: a flight attendant's gone missing, according to her roommate. No signs of foul play or reasons for her to disappear."

"Like Fisca. Where was she last seen?"

"She took a cab from the airport to her apartment. Never made it inside."

He wrote down the name and address Kate gave him, thanked her and hung up.

A flight attendant and a firefighter. He thought he saw the glimmer of a pattern-both of them helped people, though in very different ways. Both were put in actual danger by the element they worked with.

He took another red pin and stuck it into the map where the flight attendant had vanished.Nothing unusual between the two points-but let's pretend they're two points of a box. If all the sides are the same length, then the third and fourth points would fall here . . . and here.

The third point didn't mean anything to Angel- but the fourth point did. He tapped the spot with his finger, and smiled. "Gotcha," he said.

We require the location of the next sacrifice,Baasalt thought.

He was not merely ruminating to himself. He was in telepathic contact with a Skin-Dweller, one who was a.s.sisting the Tremblors in their quest. His name was Rome.

We have requirements of our own,Rome thought back.The Serpentene have still not been persuaded.

Being in mental contact with a Skin-Dweller was distasteful to Baasalt; it was like being immersed in something wet and twitching. It produced an uncomfortable feeling that he could only define as wanting-this-to-be-over.There was no word for impatience in Baasalt's language.Do you wish us to produce another tremor?

No, I think something more direct is called for . . .

The spot Angel had zeroed in on was on the beach, right by a lifeguard station. Since all the attacks had been at night and in secluded areas, Angel reasoned the Tremblors would target a lifeguard somewhere between work and home.

Two lifeguards were stationed at the post during the day. Angel planned for him and Doyle toshadow them after their shifts, then keep an eye on where they lived.