Archangel Protocol Page 3

  "I thought that was the phone." I heard shuffling and continued muffled curses. He walked into view, and I saw the back of his head. Gray had completely overtaken the raven hair that impressed me so much as a rookie. Though, I was glad to see, he still seemed to have a full head of it. Taking in the rest of his trim form, it seemed he was still keeping in shape. A sweat-darkened leather strap of a shoulder holster contrasted with the starched white of his shirt. Even though his job confined him mostly to the desk and the rabbi-mayor's office, he wore jeans. Still as irreverent as ever. I smiled, but he didn't see me. He was still searching for the phone.

  "Who even uses a phone?" He continued to dig under stacks of paper. When his search sent a row of data chips tumbling to the floor, I couldn't contain myself any longer.

  "Behind you, Al, on your desk. The flat black box."

  "Right." Finding it, he squinted into the monitor. "Listen, I'm going to have reception patch this onto the LINK ..." Then, he recognized me. "Of course. You. Never mind, this is going to be short. What do you want, McMannus? I thought we had a deal. You stay out of police business."

  "It's one of your boys that's come to me." I kept part of my attention focused on Michael as he trudged down the street. I'd slowed to almost a crawl to follow him and would probably end up with a ticket for going under the required speed limit. I glanced at my wristwatch-phone. "Michael Angelucci. You know him, Al?"

  "Know him? For Christ's sake, get your claws out of him; Mike's one of our star players."

  "Yeah, I can see why." I spit out a bitter laugh. "He's got a heart."

  My insult didn't even faze Al. He just narrowed his green eyes even further and glared at me suspiciously. "What's he coming to you for?"

  "That's personal." I quickly turned down a connecting tube, as Michael rounded the corner in front of me.

  Al drew his lips into a tight line and studied my face. "If he's bringing a case to you, I'll have his hide."

  "He's not. I just wanted to make sure the guy was legit. He seemed awfully friendly to be one of yours."

  Al barked out a gruff laugh. "Give him some time, McMannus. He's only been in the big city about a month. Transferred from Pennsylvania. Amish country. They're pretty cut off out there. No LINK."

  I thought about my dingy office, and sneered. "It's a refreshing way to live. You ought to try it."

  "I had so much hope for you, Dee. You were the best." His voice dropped to almost a whisper. When I looked down, his stony expression had cracked slightly. When he saw me looking at him, he pointed at me. "You were smart enough to know better than to cross certain lines. You don't fuck with loyalty and expect to stay in the force."

  I shook my head. "Loyalty? That's what it was about for you? Listen to yourself, Al. I notice you didn't mention justice."

  "This is the real world, kid. You were too damned idealistic to survive on the force. Grow up, why don't you?" The finger that had been pointing at me now jabbed at the box. The time display scrolled across the screen, followed by caller ID, and then, finally, the fax light flashed. His frown deepened. Suddenly, his hand got really large and distorted, then the screen went dark. For a second, I thought he actually managed to find the off switch, until I heard him dejectedly mutter, "Aw, hell."

  I realized he'd just flipped the phone over, so that the fiber-optic camera faced his desk. The line was still open, and I used the opportunity to foil his parting shot. "You were like a father to me, Al. A little loyalty from you might've been nice."

  * * *

  New York Times excerpt from 2075.

  PARTNER EXCOMMUNICATED: Pope likens McMannus to Jezebel

  The Vatican issued a surprise announcement today excommunicating Catholic Deidre McMannus, former partner of Pope-killer Daniel Fitzpatrick. The brief statement from the newly elected Pope Elijah I said, "Statements made by McMannus at Christendom court have shown her to be a nonbeliever and a temptress of men." The statement included virtual replay of McMannus's admittance that she invited Fitzpatrick back to her place despite the fact that she knew him to be a married man, and her sworn testimony that she agreed with Fitzpatrick's controversial assessment of the invalidity of the LINK-angels.

  Though absolved of any connection to the murder of the Pope, McMannus has been under heavy scrutiny in Christendom and beyond for her extraneous interviews and commentary. Vatican spokesperson Cardinal Jacob Creed said, "I really doubt there's anything that woman believes in."

  The Times caught up with McMannus at her apartment moments after the announcement was made. "Those bastards!" McMannus said. "Don't they know what this will do to me? How am I supposed to maintain religious accreditation?" [LINK here for virtual replay]

  Religious scholar Dr. Jesus Martinez of the American Catholic university, Georgetown, was equally surprised at the Vatican's decision. "This is really not precedented," he said in a LINKed interview. "The Vatican rarely issues excommunication orders. As far as I can see, Deidre McMannus has done nothing that would normally call for excommunication."

  LINK opinion polls, however, seem to think that the justice meted out by the Vatican is perfectly appropriate. "Let her rot, I say," harryll435@LINK.com posted today on the hot-LINK discussion group devoted to following the Pope murder trial. "She's a complete bitch."

  On the same discussion group, Wiccan High Priestess Sapphire Whitewater publicly offered McMannus an invitation to convert. "McMannus is precisely the kind of woman my coven is looking for. Strong, self-reliant, and daring. Some might call those the qualities of a bitch, but I say they are the qualities of a witch."

  McMannus has not yet replied to Whitewater's offer.

  Chapter 3

  The loyalty bit from Al really stung. Daniel shot the Pope in broad daylight in front of a thousand spectators. There was very little anyone could say in his defense. The prosecution was less concerned about the events of the shooting, since they were caught on 3-D cam and hardly arguable, but whether or not Daniel had premeditated the murder.

  I was the character witness that backfired. My testimony proved that Daniel had been acting strangely, more secretive, before the murder, and though I'd made a case that I thought it had to do with problems at home, the prosecution could care less. For them, his odd behavior was enough.

  Most damning of all was the fact that Daniel had hit on me, sexually speaking, the night before. His advances weren't entirely unwanted, but certainly out of character, not to mention a bit rough, for Daniel.

  When the defense tried for insanity, I trumped them there as well. I pointed out that Daniel had been cognizant of right and wrong the night before – he'd stopped when I said "no" loud enough.

  I shook my head. It was true that I was a liability to Daniel's case, but I didn't deserve to be branded disloyal to the force. All I had done was tell the truth. Then, when the Pope excommunicated me, he suggested that, by being attractive to Daniel, I was the seductress and somehow an instigator in the whole mess. The media immediately started calling me Jezebel. That was all the excuse the department needed to gather my walking papers. My infamy was a media nightmare for the force. Even now, a year later, my face never left the newscasts for long. In this era of religiously dominated politics, I'd inspired a strange, if loyal, fan base.

  The tubes diverged as traffic detoured around the construction of a ten-story Jesus that would house the main offices of the Lamb of God church. Under the scaffolding, I could see the outline of Christ's features. It struck me how sad his eyes looked, staring out at the tangled skyline of New York. In his hands, a neon sign proudly proclaimed forty thousand served.

  "McChrist," I muttered, pointing my car toward the down-ramp. I lost Michael for a second as he entered the service tunnel to the skyway. I quickly turned onto an up-ramp, and began to follow the tube circling the building. With my luck, Michael would hop an express to the hundred and fifty-first level; it would take me months to get up that far. Then, out of the driver's side window of my battered Chevy, I spotted him clearly. He st
epped into the walkway and was making his way to Margie's, the local lunch counter favored by cops on this level.

  I continued the circle around until I came to a car park across from Margie's. I waved my credit counter in front of the automated lot attendant. As much as that would hurt my pocketbook, I was glad to be on solid ground again. The shaky tubing had made my nerves raw.

  When I reached a good spot inside the lot, I pulled out my binoculars. A couple of guys greeted Michael when he came in, but he sat alone at a table by the window. The waitress certainly gave Michael the onceover. I couldn't blame the girl. She didn't seem to treat him like a regular, however. Then, again, it could be her shy flirtation was just part of their weekly routine.

  My stomach growled. I reached across the dashboard, and unwrapped a fat-free cupcake. As I bit into it, I tried to pretend it was the food being delivered to Michael's table. After two disgusting bites of the cupcake, I had to give up. I tossed the sorry excuse for a pastry into the backseat, wrapping and all. Frustrated and wholly unsatisfied, I glared at Michael.

  I rubbed the dust on the window with my sleeve, squinting at Michael through the smeared glass. I sat up sharply. Someone approached his table. Michael gestured at the empty seat. This guy didn't look much like a cop, although he was certainly wide and tall enough. I might've guessed him to be a soldier, but his coppery red hair was shoulder-length and unruly. Despite the warm weather, he wore a long brown trench coat, the kind under which a person could conceal almost any type of weapon. Beneath the coat, a smooth silk shirt peeked out. The whole ensemble would've made the Klein Fashion Empire green with envy. It was quite trendy-looking, although a bit upscale for a cop's friend.

  It was times like this when I seriously missed the LINK. I might have been able to snag the stranger's retina, even at this distance. Then, I'd have a solid lead. Looking around the deserted car park, I sighed. This gig sucked. My stomach growled again and reminded me that there was, at least, decent food inside ait Margie's.

  "Screw subtlety," I muttered to myself, and reached for the door handle. "If he asks, I'll tell him I followed him."

  Elbowing through the crowded walkway, I made my way to Margie's pink neon sign. With a grunt, I pushed the glass door open. The smell of potatoes and onions deep-frying in black-market animal fat filled the air. I love greasy spoons. It'd been over a year since I wandered into this particular joint, however. A few eyes checked me out. Over in the corner, Sergeant Dorshak gave me a hard glare, like I had no business in here.

  I lifted my hand as if to tip a hat to him. Dorshak dodged my greeting by suddenly noticing the cooling food on his plate. With an unkind little laugh, I muttered, "Coward." In Dorshak's honor, however, I might order that oh-so-interesting blue-plate special myself while I interrogated Michael and his friend. After all, there was nothing like mixing a little pleasure with business.

  "Hey, Mike." I clapped a hand on his broad shoulder. Sliding into the empty spot next to him in the booth before he could protest, I asked, "Who's your friend here?"

  "Deidre." Michael looked surprised, but without missing a beat, he gestured across the table to the redhead. "This is ... ah, Morningstar..." Michael struggled for an appropriate description. "He's 'an old friend.' "

  "How literary, 'Mike.' But, I believe you mean 'Arnold Friend.' " Morningstar chuckled.

  Morningstar? I thought, with a surprised raise of my eyebrow. Going by the name of a fallen angel was a new twist on the whole naming phenomenon – very risque. What kind of guy was this friend of Michael's, I wondered.

  "Charmed, I'm sure," Morningstar nodded only briefly in my direction, his attention focused on Michael. "Love to stay and chat with your little friend here, but I was on my way out. Oh, and Captain? When you see the big guy next, tell him he's got no business messing in my territory. Got it?"

  Morningstar smoothed down the left side of his silk shirt with his right hand. It was the kind of gesture I'd seen gangsters use to imply they had the firepower to back up their threats. Even though it wasn't my fight, I casually slid my hand into the pocket of my suit coat and wrapped my hand around the butt of my Magnum. I edged away from Michael slowly.

  Tension hung in the air, but Michael was cool. He smiled slightly, as if amused by Morningstar's display of bravado. In an even voice, Michael said, "This is hardly your territory."

  The gangster sneered. Though he'd said he was leaving, he leaned back in his seat, considering it. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever." Morningstar sounded unconvinced. "It's not like the family's done much for the neighborhood lately, you know what I'm saying? If They won't do anything, it's up to me to take care of things, isn't it? I think of it as a kind of natural inheritance, kind of a survival of the fittest."

  "What are you talking about? Fittest? You know which one of us is the favored son." Michael laughed unkindly. Something about his manner made it sound as though the implication was that Michael expected this "inheritance," whatever that was.

  I looked at Morningstar with renewed interest. There was a bit of family resemblance in the face when I looked for it. Morningstar's features were thinner, but he and Michael shared a similar intensity. It was like they were cut from cloths of different colors, but of the same tone.

  "Hmph." Something tugged at the muscles in Morningstar's jaw, as if trying to break through his facade of confidence. "Don't you forget that I'm older than you. I was first once."

  "Not anymore," Michael said smugly.

  "Look at you," Morningstar said. "Such arrogance."

  "You would know all about that, wouldn't you?" Michael said.

  The gangster laughed. "You're so fucking black-and-white all the time, brother. You have no idea what really motivates me, do you?"

  "Of course I do, it's written all over your face," Michael said.

  "Oh, and what's that, wise guy?" Morningstar asked. Pretending disinterest, he played with the saltshaker.

  Love, I thought as I watched Morningstar.

  "Jealousy," Michael said. "You want what I have. You always did."

  Morningstar laughed, but it was a constricted sound. "Hardly. Look at you, you're a spoiled brat. You wouldn't last a moment without the family."

  "I don't have to."

  A sound, like the growl of a wildcat, emanated from Morningstar's throat. With no other warning, he lifted his edge of the table. The table separated from the floor with a loud rending sound, and the bulk of it bore down on me. I tumbled onto the floor as the plates slid off the plastic tablecloth and shattered.

  Michael came down over the top of the still-moving table. I squinted, as my eyes registered only a blur of motion. An enormous blast of air pushed against me. The sound of a strong wind through trees filled my ears, followed by a deafening crash. My hair blew in front of my face and the plate shards on the floor rattled around. When I could see again, Michael had Morningstar by the scruff of his collar. The table was pushed against the seats Michael and I had been occupying. Wood splinters were spattered all over the floor.

  Every head in the place swung around to see what was going on. Sliding the Magnum back into its hiding place, I picked myself off the floor and dusted off my regulation-length skirt. The gesture was purely for show since mustard dripped into my shoes. I picked my way around the splintered table and tried not to notice that it had once been bolted to the floor, though I could clearly see the holes in the floorboards.

  "Take it outside, guys. Move it," I ordered in my best ex-cop voice. I sounded tough, but the truth was, their sudden violence scared me.

  "No," Michael said in a commanding voice, still holding Morningstar's collar. "This ends here."

  Morningstar loosened himself from Michael's grip with some effort. "Oh yeah, tough guy. You think you can take me on alone?"

  "I will and I can," Michael insisted.

  "But is it what the family wants?" Morningstar said, and Michael's resolve seemed to waiver. After making a grand production of shaking out his expensive suit, he squared his shoulders. "It ma
kes you nervous doesn't it? Not knowing the plan. Let me give you a clue – you'll never know what They have in store for you until it's over. You're their puppet – body and soul ... but wait, that's not right, is it? 'Body and soul'?"

  With a quick glance around the room, I caught at least three cops with that faraway look that meant they were on the LINK. No doubt, they'd transmitted all the gory details to precinct headquarters by now. I was curious about this family squabble, but not enough to get arrested over it. I whispered to Michael, "I've got to get out of here, a squad's probably on its way."

  "I'll come with you." Without removing his eyes from Morningstar, he added. "This is not the place or time for this kind of discussion, Morningstar."

  "What, no reaction?" Morningstar smiled coldly. "It doesn't bother you? The difference between us and them?"

  Suddenly, the red flash of my retina being scanned by three or more lasers blinded me. "Like any of you don't know who I am," I said, rubbing at my eye. "Come on, Mike, let's get a move on!"

  Michael's eyes stayed locked on the gangster. Despite my insistence, he didn't budge. "They made their choice," Michael said grimly.

  "Now that you're here in the Big Apple, what are you going to do? Maybe you've already bitten off more than you can chew."

  Michael's eyes grew wide, and then he shook his head. "Lies."

  I tugged his sleeve. "If you're coming, let's go..."

  Morningstar raised an eyebrow and gave a little laugh. "That's your best? 'Liar.' Whoa, big insult. I'm hurting. Hey, look, I don't care what you do. Just stay away from me, capisne?"

  "Deus volent." Michael looked like he wanted to say more, so I tugged him on the arm. With that, he let me lead him toward the door.

  "My car's this way..." I pulled him in the direction of the car park. As the walkway's hustle and bustle surrounded us, I felt my shoulders relax. In a second we were at the car. "Get in."