J.B. noticed my footwear and raised an eyebrow. I stared brazenly back at him like it was completely normal to wear crappy slippers to work. After a few minutes of playing cowboy, he apparently decided to launch right in.

“What the hell happened with that pickup this morning, Black? And why were you doing it instead of Walker?”

“Patrick had a last-minute emergency,” I said, deftly avoiding the first question. “I was able to go instead, so I did. Not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal? Not a big deal?” J.B. said.

“I do understand English, you know. There’s no need to repeat yourself.”

“You lost the soul,” he said through gritted teeth. “Since when is that not a big deal?”

“Since when is a person’s choice judged null and void by you?” I snapped. “She didn’t want to leave her cats.”

“You weren’t there very long. I don’t think you tried particularly hard to change her mind.”

I stared at him. “How would you know that? Since when is it your job to monitor the length of time spent on each pickup?”

Something flickered in his eyes, but he pressed on as if I hadn’t spoken. “And I know all about Walker’s ‘emergencies. ’ If he thinks he can shirk his duties every time he hooks up with some new guy, he’s in for a big surprise. And if you keep covering for him, you’re going to be spending every Saturday from now until kingdom come in the file room.”

“How do you know how long I was at the Luccardi place?” I persisted. I was absolutely disturbed by the thought that J.B., or any other member of the management, was monitoring us that closely. More important, how could they do it? “Did you have some kind of magical LoJack installed on the Agents without our knowledge?”

“Your quota is dangerously low this month, Black. And Luccardi is going to count toward your numbers, not Walker’s.”

I stood up and put my hands on his desk. “I don’t know what you’re up to, J.B., but I swear, if I find out that you’re illegally monitoring Agents, I will personally ensure that you never get that corner office you want so much.”

He looked up at me, sparks in his eyes. “I think we’re finished here.”

“Not by a long shot,” I said, and turned to leave.

“And next time you come in to work, be sure to dress a little more professionally,” he added as I slammed the door shut.

“You’re lucky I remembered to take my apron off,” I muttered, and headed back to my desk to finish filling out the forms. When I got to my cubicle I looked at the forms, picked them up and then crumpled them into a ball. I wasn’t doing anything for J.B. until I found out how he knew I’d spent such a brief time picking up that soul today. Damn the consequences.

A couple of hours later I was at home trying to re-create the pear tart recipe that had been interrupted earlier. I gave up after an hour when I kept forgetting to add ingredients to the crust. I couldn’t stop thinking about my conversation with J.B.

The doorbell rang just as I finished washing up my mixing bowls. Beezle still hadn’t moved from his perch on the mantel.

“Nice to know you’re looking out for me,” I said conversationally as I went to the speaker. “It could be anything at the door.”

“It’s Patrick,” Beezle grunted. “And it doesn’t really matter what’s at the door anymore now that you’ve let in the devil.”

I stopped and glared at him. “Why don’t you just tell me what it is about Gabriel that bothers you so much?”

He gave me a cryptic look and crossed his arms.

It was my turn to grumble under my breath as I buzzed Patrick in. He swung the upstairs door open with a flourish. “I have arrived.”

“Hooray,” Beezle grumbled.

“What’s his problem?” Patrick asked as he hung a leather blazer on the coatrack by the front door and unwound a gray cabled scarf from his neck. Patrick was tall, slim, and had electric blond hair and adorable dimples.

“He’s a gargoyle,” I said in response, and kissed his cheek. “I didn’t expect to see you for a couple of days at least.”

“Sadly, Justin turned out to be decidedly not all that,” he said. “How was the pickup this morning?”

“She wanted to stay with her cats,” I said, rolling my eyes.

Patrick gave me a knowing look. “Did Jakeass chew you out?”

“And how,” I said fervently. I debated telling Patrick about my suspicion that J.B. was monitoring us, but decided against it. I wanted to look into things further myself before getting Patrick—or any other Agent—alarmed. “He’s probably going to take a bite out of your ass, too.”

“Well, it’s nothing you and I haven’t seen before.”

“Class troublemakers,” I said, and grinned.

He grinned back. “Can we have pizza and beer? I need cheese and mushrooms and alcohol, and possibly some zucchini fried in large quantities of oil.”

“I don’t have any beer,” I said.

“Then let’s have pizza and whatever you have. I’m buying,” he said firmly. Patrick was independently wealthy, which had something to do with his father making brilliant investments and passing on that talent to his only son. He’d offered to invest some money for me, but as I pointed out to him, you had to have something to invest in the first place.

“I think I have milk and chocolate syrup,” I replied.

“I can’t imagine anything better,” he said, and slung his arm around my shoulders.

Pizza, chocolate milk and my best friend. I couldn’t imagine anything better either.

A couple of hours later Patrick left to walk the six or so blocks to his home, both of us somewhat sedated by the large quantities of food we had consumed. I waved at him from my front window, which gave me a view of the residential street on which I lived, although the enormous oak tree in the parkway blocked the view. The rain had blown through and left a clear, almost perfect autumn night. The window was cracked open about an inch and I could smell cool air and the faint scent of smoke from someone’s fireplace. It was past eleven and the streets were quiet save for the hum of traffic from nearby Addison Street.

The time spent with Patrick had taken my mind off J.B. and Gabriel Angeloscuro, but I found my worries nagging at me again almost as soon as he disappeared out of sight on the street.

Beezle had barely spoken to Patrick, which was unusual since Patrick was about the only person in the world Beezle would deign to speak to other than myself. He wouldn’t tell me what was bothering him specifically about Gabriel, and I wasn’t about to let his vague pronouncements of doom stop me from taking on a badly needed tenant.

I made a note on the pad next to the phone to call Charlie McGivney the next day. He was a P.I. I knew who ran background checks on potential tenants for me at a nominal fee.

The phone rang, making me jump about twenty feet in the air. Beezle shifted restlessly on the mantel, his ears cocked forward.

“Hello?”

Nothing. Only the crackle and hiss that sounded like someone on a cell phone out of range.

“Hello?” I asked again.

“. . . ddy?” A fragment of voice came and went so quickly I wasn’t sure I’d actually heard it.

“Is someone there?”

Another hiss, and a pop, and then, “Maddy! I need you!”

I frowned at the receiver. “Patrick? What’s wrong? The connection is terrible.”

“. . . ner of Ravenswood and Grace.”

“What?”

“I’m at the corner of Ravenswood and Grace, and I’m headed back your way!” He sounded out of breath and completely terrified.

The phone clicked and went dead.

I stared in astonishment at the phone for a moment. Patrick wasn’t prone to melodramatic fits. I dialed his cell number back and listened to several rings before his voice mail clicked on. I hung up the phone in frustration, hurriedly pulled a black sweater over my jeans and T-shirt and yanked on a pair of black Converse sneakers.

“Where are you going?” Beezle asked.

“There’s something wrong with Patrick,” I said as I grabbed my keys and cell phone from the basket by the door.

“I’m coming with you,” he announced.

“Why?” I asked, pausing at the open threshold.

Beezle never wanted to go anywhere. Gargoyles are homebodies, preferring to stay near the portal they guarded. Over time, their soft flesh hardened until they were near-permanent fixtures of the building. A gargoyle could get up and fly away if it liked, even after it turned to stone, but most didn’t want to, or maybe they just lost the knowledge. Beezle was still pretty active for an old gargoyle, but as a general rule he didn’t leave the house unless I was going to Dunkin’ Donuts, and only then to make sure that I got enough Boston Creams.

“Can’t I just want to get some fresh air?” Beezle asked mysteriously.

“No,” I said. “But I don’t have time to argue with you. Come on.”

I walked back to the mantelpiece and picked Beezle up, resting him on my right shoulder. His claws dug into my sweater and his wings fluttered against my ear as he settled himself in.

Ravenswood and Grace was only a few short blocks from my building. I shivered as I walked, picking up the pace. The temperature had dropped to the low forties, far too cold for a T-shirt and sweater. Beezle’s warm, heavy little body snuggled closer to my neck.

My eyes moved all over the street as I walked, looking for Patrick. There was nothing and nobody out. I saw the blue glow of televisions filtering through mini-blinds in several windows, but no one out taking their dog for one last walk or coming home late from a liquid business meeting. Everything seemed unnaturally still.

I turned onto Grace and hurried toward the El. The Brown Line and the Metra commuter train both ran parallel to Ravenswood on this section of their tracks. There was a Metra overpass bridge right at the corner from where Patrick had called. A large warehouse that tenanted an assortment of small businesses took up most of the south side of Grace and a couple of small-frame houses were on the opposite side.