Eleventh Grave in Moonlight

Although my meeting with Mr. Foster didn’t yield much in the way of information, I did get one tidbit for certain: Mr. Foster could definitely see, even if just barely, into the celestial plane. I caught him glancing toward Angel twice, and both times it had been when Angel had moved quickly. If what he could see was anything like my friend Pari, he may have seen Angel’s essence in the form of a grayish mist. Just like in the movies. Then again, he could be like Amber’s main squeeze, Quentin. Thanks to a tragic demonic possession, that kid could see the departed as clearly as I could.

I hauled butt back across town to Sunny Side Up on Central. Angel had seen a lot. He’d died over two decades ago. His reaction to this crime scene, after everything he’d witnessed, made no sense. It had to be the kid. He’d said something about a kid, proof that underneath all his bravado sat a heart of gold.

But he saw dead kids all the time. Maybe it was the shooting. Maybe it brought back memories of his own death, which was shooting related, as well, the hole in his chest surrounded by a feathering of dark crimson evidence. Evidence that he would wear every day for the rest of his existence as long as he stayed on this plane.

Was that what set him off? I’d never given much thought to how Angel handled everything he saw. He’d been with me all through high school, college, and the Peace Corps. And he’d been investigating for me since I’d opened Davidson Investigations over three years ago. He seemed to take everything in stride, but clearly there was more than met the eye. I’d have to pencil in a sit-down as soon as I could.

Until then, the crime scene was easy enough to spot. Flashing lights and yellow tape were never a good sign.

I had to park at a hotel next to the café. Then I went in search of my favorite – and only – uncle. He stood behind an ambulance, speaking to an EMT. The emergency technician nodded, shook his hand, then climbed inside the van and took off, lights blazing and sirens blaring.

Ubie turned and saw me standing with the spectators behind the tape. I was just about to wave him over when he stormed toward me.

He scanned the area, then dragged me under the tape and marched me toward the café. “What are you doing here?”

I could hardly tell him I had Angel watching his every move. Because then I would have to tell him why. I would have to tell him that the man who could be responsible for his death was still at large. I would have to tell him how we thwarted the first – and hopefully only – attempt. I would have to tell him he was slated for hell. And then I would have to tell him why. That I knew what he did for me. That I owed him. That I loved him beyond measure.

“Charley Davidson, you are under arrest.”

Or not. “You can’t arrest me just because you want to, Uncle Bob.”

He stopped just inside the doors to the café and snapped his fingers at a nearby uniform. “Watch me.” He collected the officer’s handcuffs and turned me around, concern drawing his brows into a hard line. “You have the right to remain silent.”

I stilled when I saw the inside of the café. Overturned chairs. Broken glass. And blood. So much blood. “What happened, Uncle Bob?”

“Anything you say —”

“The kid,” I said, remembering what Angel had said. I whirled to face him but kept my hands behind my back even though he’d only cuffed one wrist. “There was a kid. Is he okay? Did he get shot?”

Ubie let out a long, exhausted sigh. “How did you know there was a kid involved?”

“Spies. Uncle Bob, what happened?”

The anger drained from his body, and a sadness crept in. He walked to a chair and lowered himself into it. “Just another day in the city.”

I knelt beside him and put my cuffed hand on his knee. “Is the boy… is he okay?”

After a long moment, he caved. “He will be. He was shot in the head and shoulder. The head wound was just a graze, and the shoulder will heal.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” I scanned the area again. A couple of uniforms eyed me, clearly wondering what I was doing at a crime scene as the CSS team scoured the place.

“Mass shooting,” he said, taking in the scene again. “A homeless man came in and shot up the place. Killed two people. Injured five others.”

“I’m sorry.” It seemed like such a lame thing to say, but I had nothing else. What did one say to such a senseless act? “Did they catch the shooter?”

He shook his head. “There’s a search going on as we speak. He took off toward the interstate, but that’s the last anyone has seen of him.”

Before he could say anything else, his phone rang. He stood, walked a few feet away, and answered it. I stood and followed him.

“Where? Just the coat? Get a field investigator over there and check the area for cameras.” He hung up, then turned, surprised at first I stood right on his heels until it sank in who I was. Who I was explained a lot of my actions to those who knew me well.

“Good news?” I asked.

“Possibly. They found a coat that may have been the shooter’s three blocks over.”

“That’s strange.”

“In what way?”

“Well, if he was just some random homeless guy, why would he ditch his coat?”

“To throw us off.”

“But a homeless guy on a chilly day who probably only has the one coat to speak of?”

Uncle Bob bent his head in thought as I took a closer look at the crime scene.

“Who died?” I asked.

“What?”

“Who died?”

“A woman in her midthirties and an elderly man.”

I nodded. Bit my bottom lip. Started to let the emotions of the spectators I’d felt earlier soak in. A couple felt off, but I chalked that up to reporter enthusiasm. Only a reporter would get excited at a fatal shooting. Especially if he were the first on the scene. So there was definitely one reporter present. So, then, why did I get a similar reaction from another spectator who had no press credentials or cameraman to speak of?