Accidental God 2.0 -- Section 10

[End of day one. Tomorrow we get to visit the bagel shop, have a phone call with Proust, stop off in a hospital, and go on a lunch date. But that's for another day.]


    Alone in his apartment on the third floor, in an unremarkable building near the corner of Washington and Third Avenue--not Third Street, which was one block over--Bradley brushed his teeth. As he brushed, he thought about the woman in the oversized coat, lying on the floor of the restaurant. He thought about how still she’d been.
    Then he walked down the hall, climbed under his covers, and fell asleep.


    “I wish we could schedule all crime between the hours of ten and seven,” said Paul, starting the car and pulling out onto the mostly empty road. “This is ridiculously late for me to be working.”
    “When was the last time you went to bed before midnight?” asked Tuck.
    “I didn’t say it was too late to be awake. Just too late for me to be working. Also, it’s getting cold. You have a bearing on the violence residue from here?”
    Tuck looked around the city. Traffic was thinning out, with just the occasional cab, a few late-night shoppers, and the flashing lights of police cars three blocks down.
    “Hello,” he said. “What’s that?”
    “That the right direction?” asked Paul.
    “It is, mostly. Not exactly right, but...I think we should check it out.”
    “Already on it,” said Paul, speeding up.
    Less than a minute more and they were parked and walking up to the police tape, identification in hand.
    “Uh-oh,” said the uniformed officer waiting by the tape, his unusually heavy eyebrows pulled down over his eyes.
    “Something the matter?” asked Paul.
    “Other than the dead guy in the alley? Yeah, Theological Crimes Division just showed up, and that means the sergeant is going to be pissed.”
    Tuck and Paul glanced at each other. “We’re not here to step on anyone’s toes,” said Paul. “We’re just following a lead on another case, and it lead us this direction. Might not have anything to do with your guy.”
    “You two working the Forgotten Zed murder?” asked the officer.
    Tuck sighed. It would have been nice to keep a lid on the whole thing a little longer, but if someone had already tipped off the media--and they had--then there was no way the news wasn’t everywhere in Northern Lights.
    “Yeah, that’s us.”
    “Then I’m afraid you may have found your man.”
    “The killer?”
    “Yeah. I might as well tell you, since the sergeant is going to go all jurisdictional on your behinds and give you a big fight before he gives you anything useful: the guy down there is a hit man. Local, suspected in a lot of things, but nothing ever pinned on him.”
    Tuck looked down the alley toward the flash of cameras as the CSI unit documented the scene. “The local guy have a name?”
    “Sure does. Bjorn Baernson.”
    “Bjorn’s dead?” asked Paul, clearly shocked.
    “You know him?” asked Tuck.
    “Sure do. The guy’s something like a quarter demon, so he showed up on my radar a couple years back. Big man. Very big.”
    The officer nodded. “Yeah, that’s the guy.”
    Paul was shaking his head. “But he couldn’t have done that shot. He wasn’t a finesse man. Up close stuff, not the kind of long-range accuracy that did it for Zed.”
    Tuck covered his mouth with his hand and tugged at his lips.
    “Uh-oh,” said Paul.
    “What’s up?” asked the officer. “What’s he doing?”
    “That’s his thinking face. He’s onto something.”
    Tuck nodded. “I am. Maybe. It seems like I’ve heard about something like this before.”
    “With another murder? Do we have a serial killer?”
    “Not just any murder. The death of another god. We need to make a phone call, but first I think I need a couple minutes with the body.”
    The officer’s radio crackled and they paused while he listened. Tuck couldn’t make out what was said--not for certain, at least--but he had his suspicions.
    “Another body?” he asked.
    “Two,” said the officer. “Two different dumpsters.”
    “Aha,” said Tuck. “Time for bed, Paul.”
    “What? Are you serious?”
    Tuck turned and started walking to their car. Paul thanked the officer and hurried to catch up.
    “That’s it? I thought you said you needed time with the body.”
    Tuck shook his head. “No point. So many deaths, almost certainly all connected, I won’t get anything useful. By the time I figure out which killer leads where, the only one left alive will be halfway across the world. No, it’s time for some sleep.”
    “What if the deaths are unconnected?”
    Tuck pressed his lips together. “I don’t think they are.”
    “Because of that thing you remembered--the other death of a god that you were talking about?”
    “Exactly. I need to call Proust, and nothing is waking him up at this hour short of a fog horn on his bedside table. So we get some sleep and hit this in the morning fresh.”
    Paul shrugged. “Fine by me. Did Proust catch the killer on his case?”
    “Yes.”
    “There’s hope, then.”
    “Not exactly. The killer was dead.”
    Paul blinked. “What about the person who killed the killer?”
    “Also dead.”
    “How long did that go on for?”
    “I can’t remember, which is why we make a phone call, but I can tell you this: they never did figure out where the god’s power went. The case is still open.”
    Paul laughed. “It’s like opening up one of those Russian dolls, and there’s another doll inside, and another, and another.”
    “Yep,” agreed Tuck. “And then one of those little dolls becomes a crazy god and destroys your city.”
    “I never did like those dolls,” said Paul.