“Yes, you are the best cindercorn.” Perky hit the button for the eighth floor. “We are all residents of the eighth floor, as Bailey decided her new detective needed to be close by. Your office locks, and you do not need to let her in if she’s annoying you. Honestly, when you see the pile of paperwork in your office, I’m sure you won’t be speaking to the Chief Quinns for a few days. To compensate you for the nightmare ahead of you, I have secured a digital murder board and a digital whiteboard for your exclusive use. You’ll have earned it within a week.”

  I recognized when trouble headed my way. “What kind of case is it?”

  “We suspect a serial killer, but we don’t have sufficient evidence to bump it over to the specialists yet. Honestly, I stopped counting after fifty of these cases crossed my desk, so you’ll have to get a headcount, identify the common links, and do what you can. Some of the cases are fairly fresh—as in from this morning. We have several teams out gathering evidence for you now. With the number coming in, there’s no way one pair can handle it, but you’ll be the central point for our investigation. Bailey thought a pair of fresh eyes with a new detective’s badge might be able to give us additional insight, and Sam liked the idea enough he started digging through personnel records for the perfect person, which is you.”

  For the case count to be well over fifty, I struggled to believe a single serial killer held responsibility, especially if there were several new cases in one day. “Time between killings?”

  “This morning, the murders were within a three-block radius and happened within a thirty-minute window. They all shared a similar murder method.”

  All right. I could understand why someone might believe a mass murderer might be responsible, but a serial killer? “Why is this being classified as a serial killer and not a mass murderer?”

  Perky smiled, although it was grim. “The fact you understand there is a difference between a serial killer and a mass murderer puts you ahead of the game. We have been dealing with a week-long argument about the differences because of these cases.”

  “Well, it depends on which definition of serial killer you go with. Some specify there needs to be a cool-down period between incidents, and psychologically, many like to believe there is a sexual component to the crimes.”

  “Ewww,” the cindercorn said, and she shook her head. “No want to think about sexual conduct between killer and goo of steamrolled people.”

  Torn between dismay and laughter at the woman’s reaction, I replied, “It’s not the sexual relationship between the murderer and the corpse, typically. We call those necrophiliacs rather than serial killers.”

  “Still ewww,” she replied.

  “Someone went on a joyride in a steamroller and killed several people this morning?” I asked.

  “That’s the problem. We don’t know how the steamroller got to the various murder sites. It’s like the steamroller manifested, ran the victim over, and teleported to the next victim before disappearing. We have eyewitness accounts there was a steamroller, the physical evidence claims there was a steamroller involved, but there’s no steamroller.”

  The elevator pinged before opening, and I followed Perky out, staring at him with wide eyes. “The steamroller disappeared?”

  “Honestly, that’s the most normal part of the whole case,” he muttered. “Okay, gas guzzler. Go to your office and leave us alone. Your lunch will be here in twenty minutes, so get your gear off and make yourself pretty. If you’re pretty when Sam gets here, he might even forgive you for tormenting the new recruit.”

  “She fine. Not even green. Order her whatever she want for lunch, she earn it. I pay because twenty-two teleports. It twenty-two teleport penalty, issued in food.” The cindercorn lashed her tail and trotted down the center of the massive gauntlet of cop cubicles. She stopped at every desk on the way to investigate, where the officers gave her some form of junk food in exchange for an opportunity to pet her.

  “I’m very confused,” I confessed. “I’m concerned I damaged my brain this morning when I rejected the advances of an incubus.”

  “Ah, you’re the incubus case? We heard about that. The incubus ‘reported’ an incident to Sam, claiming that it is criminal for the NYPD to have a gorgeous virgin cop and refusing to give her paid time off to resolve the issue. I’m letting you know so you’re prepared for the flurry of speculation. Unless you’re looking for a date, play stupid. If you are looking for a date, just tell Bailey you’re lonely. She’ll go on a mission to end your single days. Honestly, she’s pretty good at it, so that’s something.”

  Oh, right. I’d rejected the incubus by stating I had no more PTO left, and however much he’d be a great start to my day, I would have to decline his invitation. Had I remained at my old precinct, the jokes about my virginity would have become relentless, with an equal mix of good-natured ribbing and maliciousness. “Doctor’s appointments,” I complained. “My next appointment is unpaid.”

  “Right. Okay, so, your healthcare works a lot differently here than in the other precincts.” Perky gestured along the wall where a bunch of glass-fronted offices observed the cubicle farm. “These offices are for those who are supervising the rowdy cops in the cubicle farms. We rotate them, so every month someone gets to escape the farm to enjoy an office before the shuffle resumes.”

  Interesting. At my old precinct, offices went to the captain’s favorites without exception. “Why am I getting an office?”

  Perky led me through the cubicle farm to a hallway, and I discovered the chiefs had a pair of offices next to each other with a removable wall, which was opened so they shared their space. “Bailey said so, and Sam agreed after looking over your file—and we have a bunch of offices for detectives on this floor. Since you’re coming in with the shit cases, you get an office as your transfer reward. Anyway, if you have any problems with your sexual health, you need to go see Sam. He’s part incubus, and if he can’t resolve the issue, one of his family will come in and resolve the problem. It turns out a quarter of the women in our precinct had various issues of one sort or another, which were corrected. About a quarter of the men had issues, too, which were likewise resolved. As a result, everyone is happier. When the ladies aren’t grouchy because they’re in pain, us men are more likely to survive to the end of our shifts. As for us men, heightened testosterone levels are addressed along with any sexual health issues, as these can cause problems for everyone. We also have a zero tolerance policy for domestic violence or excessive force while on duty, and a condition of employment is that the spouses or significant others of everyone working here have direct access to the Quinns in case of emergency. Let’s just say it’s worked well and leave it at that.”

  Huh. I’d have to battle a mass murderer or serial killer to get to stay at what appeared to be the ultimate workplace for a female cop. The challenge enthused me almost as much as the change of pace and improved environment. “What’s the catch?”

  “If you have something wrong with you, you will get unexpectedly called in the chief’s office—and which chief you get depends on which one notices first. If Bailey notices first, she will start nagging angels until one shows up to fix the problem. If Sam notices first, you get a consultation in his office, whatever therapy you need he can handle, and the rest of the day off work because your emotional health will have undergone severe trauma and you deserve to go home with hot chocolate, coffee, or some other treat along with strict orders to enjoy your freedom from work.”

  “What is traumatizing about a consultation and therapy?” I blurted. “If it works, bring it on.”

  “Hold that thought,” Perky said, and he turned, lifted his hand to his mouth, and whistled. “Hey, gas guzzler! Moment, please?”

  The cindercorn trotted over, and in her hurry to come when called, she still had her nose in a bag of chips.

  Perky sighed, supported the bottom of the bag so the cindercorn could munch at her treat, and said, “Call Sam and ask him to give your new detective a check over. It looks like we’ve got another one.”

  The chief pulled her head free of the bag and eyed me. “Erratic periods, excess bleeding, or the wrath of god in your uterus?”

  Well, that was one way to handle the situation, especially as the rest of the cops went back to work and made it clear they had zero interest in our discussion. Had I been asked in my first days in the force, I might’ve fallen over dead from embarrassment, but dealing with the problem directly suited me. “Wrath of god,” I admitted.

  “Will call asshole. Take her to office, asshole fix. Asshole owe favor, balance scales, make Sam happy.” Chief Bailey Quinn went to the nearest desk, lifted a hoof, and pointed at the phone. “Move that, press out button,” she ordered.

  The cop chuckled and obeyed.

  With care, the cindercorn dialed a number and pressed the speakerphone button.

  “How is my sweet little granddaughter today?” a masculine voice answered.

  “You come station, fix new detective? She has wrath of some cruel mean god in her uterus. You clear debt, Sam made happy, I be rewarded for good behavior tonight. All go sleep happy, with new detective happiest of all.”

  The man chuckled, and his laughter reminded me of the chiming of bells. I altered my thought on who she spoke to, as I’d run into enough angels to understand they weren’t quite men or women. “How sensible of you. Are you enjoying your coffee?”

  “Oh, yes,” Chief Bailey Quinn breathed. “So much coffee, much happy.”

  “I can do as you wish but on one condition.”

  “What condition?” the cindercorn demanded, and she turned her ears back while lowering her hoof back to the floor, clicking her claw against the tile. “No condition, owe favor.”

  “I would like your detective to investigate someone. It would be most prudent of her to do so. That is all I ask.”

  The cindercorn grunted. “Fine, but if I do not get my reward for good behavior tonight, I will be very sad. Especially if Beauty is intolerant to pineapple. Very, very sad. She see Doctor Perkette tonight about the pineapples. Then other doctor tomorrow, too.”

  “I see you are as vigilant as always regarding your children,” the angel praised. “I shall be over promptly, although I will delay long enough for your detective to see the marvels of her new office before I assist in this matter. Do prepare your couch, as she will surely become a temporary resident of your office once I finish with her.”

  “Can do. Foals are with my father if you would like to visit with them. They eat solid food as of today. They have graduated! I am free, free to have all of the coffee!”

  “May He safeguard us all from your wicked ways,” the angel teased.

  “You the one most wicked. See you soon. No halos, and no smiting!” Lifting her hoof, the chief disconnected the call before turning to the cop at his desk. “You make couch ready. You late shift tonight?”

  “I’m on late shift tonight. I’ll make sure Detective McMarin makes it home. Do you have her cruiser keys?”

  “Sam has keys. You steal from him, be in charge of my detective. If she wish to get started on case once she is up from her nap, keep eye on her. Order her soup and good food, give me receipt. She have hard day. Twenty-two teleports.”

  The cop whistled. “Well done, Detective McMarin. Welcome to the eighth floor. If things get a little crazier than you’re used to, just come over for a chat.”

  “A little crazier?” I asked, wondering what sort of hell an angel would put me through for me to end up on a couch in the chiefs’ shared office.

  “She’s from a Brooklyn precinct, Nilman,” Perky informed the other cop with a grin. “You know how they can get there, not often graced with the presence of cindercorns and what-else we got kickin’ around here.”

  A sympathetic sound came from every cop in the cubicle farm, along with several condolences for my suffering.

  “Don’t worry, Detective McMarin,” Nilman said, winking at me. “We’ll take good care of you here. Our precinct is the best, and I’m not saying that because Chief Bailey is willing to make us coffee when we do a good job. Good luck with your cases, though. If you need any help, just ask. Having helped them move the filing boxes into your office, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

  Chapter Three

  I got sucker punched by an archangel and woke up on a couch in the shared office of the Chief Quinns, who engaged in a lively argument over the schedule. Chief Bailey Quinn had returned to her human form, and she sat on her husband’s desk with her arms crossed over her chest.

  Sitting up, I yawned and tried to piece together the circumstances leading up to the archangel giving me a whack to the gut I’d never forget. “Is it normal for angels to punch people?”

  My question halted the dispute, and Chief Bailey Quinn grinned at me. “That’s my fault, I’m afraid. I specified no halos and no smitings, but I neglected to tell him no assault or ambushes. Apparently, he claims he was doing you a favor by making sure you were knocked out for his work. Honestly, he probably was doing you a favor, so I’m ignoring it. Holy fire hurts like hell, and angels lack regard for human pain tolerance.”

  “I didn’t even get a diagnosis. I got a punch to the gut. I mean, that is not a complaint, but it’s unexpected.”

  “Angels are assholes. You’ll get used to it. He had other things to do, but he wanted to clear an owed debt, so he did so. A little warning would have been nice, but I guess he noticed Sam behind you so you wouldn’t hit the floor hard.”

  Samuel waved from his position behind his desk. “Polycystic ovary syndrome due to faulty hormonal production. That’s something I could have handled, but Sariel informed me he has addressed any and all other health issues to make certain the debt was paid in full. We’ve been looking over your work performance records, and I suspect you’ll be happy enough without having to go to the doctors as frequently.”

  No kidding. I discovered my purse on the floor near the couch, and I checked my phone to discover I’d lost four hours of my day. “Did I even get to see my office? I can’t remember.”

  “You did,” Bailey informed me. “Sariel warned me you’d have some memory issues, and he told me to tell you not to worry about it. Holy fire tends to short circuit humans for a while. I’ll show you to your office so you can get settled.”

  Samuel cleared his throat.

  “What now?” the woman complained.

  “Why don’t you make her one of your magical cups of coffee while I show her to her office? At the same time, you can make yourself a cup, as you’re about five minutes from crashing out from your first cup.”

  “I am not going to crash out from a single cup of coffee. I can survive a while without my next cup of coffee. But I will go make McMarin a cup.” Bailey slid off the desk and left, whistling a merry tune as she went.

  “Don’t mind her. Do you want to be called McMarin or something else?”

  “I have a first name?” I asked, tilting my head to the side.

  “According to your badge, it’s Josefina,” the chief informed me. “I have trained my wife to use my first name sometimes, but if you hear her wailing Quinn, she’s talking about me.” He rose to his feet and headed to the door. “Expect Bailey to pass out on your couch. She’s stubborn, she’s tired, and she refuses to admit she’s tired. I’ll remove her when we head home, as my grandfather has informed me she will be down and out for the rest of the night. The freedom got to her.”

  I chuckled at the thought of the cindercorn being defeated by something as simple as a single cup of coffee after not having any for months. Getting to my feet, I slung my purse strap over my shoulder and followed the chief into the hallway. “I’m sorry for the trouble, Samuel, sir.”

  “You’re no trouble. It’s not the first time a new officer in our precinct has ended up on the couch after getting smote by an angel. We take care of our own here, and I have a list of angels who owe me favors a mile long, as they come to the chiefs to handle touchier situations with humans. I have the angels patch up my cops to clear out the debts, so if they can come to me, they do. They enjoy doing good for humanity despite the rules generally barring them from participating in random acts of kindness. You’ll get used to it.”

  I would? “How will time off and salary work here?” In an effort to maintain the casual atmosphere, I forced myself to drop the sir.

  To my astonishment, I didn’t spontaneously combust or descend directly to some hell.

  “I’m having your paid time off reset, as those days should be for rest and relaxation, not trying to get a medical diagnosis. I already discussed it with the commissioner. Your starting salary will be average level for third grade detectives with an unplanned transfer bonus. You’ll get to negotiate your salary at the end of the year when we’re doing the budget. Normally, we’d do the negotiation immediately upon promotion, but I needed you yesterday, and the commissioner gave me some leeway with your bonus. Part of your bonus is a relocation package if you live more than an hour from our precinct. Oh, and that’s with traffic at rush hour.”

  I stared at the man, wondering when he had lost his mind. “Who doesn’t live more than an hour from here during rush hour?”

  “Everyone except myself, my wife, and Perkins; we’re terrorizing Queens right now, although we’re going to need to get a bigger place, yet again, due to the number of children and others underfoot.”

  My current apartment gave me a two hour commute on a bad day to get to Brooklyn, and I expected closer to three hours to get to Manhattan.

  Would my new salary allow me to live somewhere closer? I supposed I could have moved closer to Brooklyn on my pre-promotion salary, but I hadn’t had the time needed to search for a new place to live. I decided I would deal with my living arrangements sometime after I came to terms with having a new job at a new precinct.

  “Others?” I asked.

  “My wife adopted an entire species of… honestly, I have no idea what they are. They look like mice, but they’re sentient, and they’ve outgrown the basement of our place. My wife wants more kids, and we agreed we’d adopt as many as we have, so we’re going to end up with at least two more kids. Add in our rescue wolves, and our current property in Queens isn’t going to cut it for much longer. This is driving me crazy because we just moved. I underestimated my wife’s interest in an entire herd of children. I need to stop underestimating my wife.”