“No, I was just lying here in the dark waiting for your call.”

“You need a good hobby. Collecting Hummels would suit you, I bet. Have you ever thought about collecting Hummels?”

“What do you want, Francis?”

Marlowe lifted himself up from where he lay, walked up to the top of the bed and plopped down again. It was like somebody dropping a seventy-pound bag of laundry beside him.

“Got somebody I think you should talk to,” the fallen Guardian said. The sound of a television announcer wailed, “Come on down,” as an enthusiastic crowd clapped, cheered, and whistled in the background.

“About Hummels?” Remy asked.

“Almost as good,” Francis answered without missing a beat. “I got somebody who knows a thing or two about missing property, and would be willing to talk to you.”

Remy reached over and began to scratch beneath Marlowe’s neck. The big dog reacted immediately, rolling onto his back. The Labrador preferred belly rubs.

“I guess it would be too early to talk to him now.”

“Your powers of observation are fucking amazing,” Francis said through a mouthful of something that could have been potato chips. “Have you ever thought about being a detective?”

“The thought’s crossed my mind. Would I make a lot of money and meet fabulously interesting people?”

Francis laughed. “Can’t really say about the money, but interesting people you’ll meet by the wheelbarrow full. In fact, I’ve got one that wants to meet you at lunchtime.”

“Awesome,” Remy said without an ounce of excitement.

“And, oh, yeah, you’re bringing the lunch.”

Francis was waiting for him in the parking lot of the Lock & Key Self-Storage building located off of the Expressway in Southie. You could see the building from the highway, an inflated padlock and chain draped around the front of the boxy structure.

Remy pulled his car alongside his friend’s Range Rover. Francis stood at the front of his vehicle smoking a cigar and staring up into the sky at a flock of geese flying in a V formation to parts unknown.

“Remembering what it felt like?” Remy asked as he slammed his car door closed. Though the gift hadn’t been lost to him, as it had to Francis, he seldom flew anymore. It gave the Seraphim nature too much strength.

Francis looked away from the birds, taking a final puff of the foul-smelling stogie before dropping it to the ground and crushing it beneath his foot.

“What what was like?” he asked coming around his car, pretending that he hadn’t noticed the birds.

“To fly,” Remy said, instinctively looking up into the sky as a plane flew overhead on its descent to Logan.

“Can’t remember that far back,” Francis said. Remy noticed a twitch at the corner of the Guardian’s eye that told him he was lying. “Can’t miss what you don’t remember.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence before Francis started up again.

“Did you remember lunch?” he asked, looking at Remy’s empty hands.

Remy moved around to the passenger-side door of his car. “Stopped off at Primos before I got on the road,” he said. “Two large: one with extra cheese, the other pepperoni.” He opened the door and carefully removed the two stacked pizza boxes.

“That should do it,” Francis said. He started across the parking lot toward the front entrance of the self-storage building.

Remy followed, pizzas in hand. He’d seen this building from the road for years, never imagining that it contained anything more than promised.

“So he has a storage bin here or something?” he asked.

“Rents at least one of the floors,” Francis said as he ambled up a handicapped-accessible ramp to the front door. “Has places all over the city, I guess. Mason’s the guy to come to when you need something that nobody else has.”

Standing in front of the door, Francis pulled out his cell and dialed a number. “We’re here,” he said into the phone, listening for a second before hanging up.

“They’ll be right down,” he said, closing the phone and slipping it back inside his coat pocket.

“Been here before?” Remy asked, inhaling the enticing aroma of baked cheese and pepperoni. He hadn’t thought he was hungry, but his mouth started to water.

“No,” Francis answered with a head shake. “Been to his space in Lynn and another smaller one in Chelsea.”

“The man’s got lots of stuff,” Remy said, noticing two figures approaching the door from the inside.

A big guy with thick black hair, dressed in a navy blue windbreaker, pushed open the door for Francis to enter, his eyes darting around, looking for anything that might’ve seemed out of place.

“You bring lunch?” he asked, his South Boston accent thick.

“That was his job,” Francis said, hooking a finger over his shoulder at Remy.

Remy lifted the boxes to show the man as he followed his friend.

“Where’d you get those?” he asked as Remy came into the building.

“Place called Primos on Myrtle Street.”

“Fucking garbage,” the man muttered beneath his breath, pushing past them to lumber toward the elevator at the back.

The second man stood back, silently watching with icy blue eyes. He was thin, clothes likely the smallest adult size that could be bought hanging loosely off his skeletal frame. His skin was sickly pale, and his blond hair was dry, like straw. Remy noticed the multicolored aura around his head out of the corner of his eye, immediately recognizing him for what he was.

The man smiled simply, following Southie, who was holding the elevator doors open for them.

“Any fuckin’ day now,” the big man complained with a roll of his eyes and shake of his head.

They all crammed inside, the pizzas filling the cab with their intoxicating aroma as they rode silently up to the sixth floor.

The doors slowly parted, Southie stomping out first to go about his business, the other stopping just outside to wait for Remy and Francis.

The elevator had opened on what looked to be office space, the surrounding walls having multiple sets of metal sliding doors. Southie had ended up inside one of the open units, and appeared to be counting up cartons of cigarettes, which he pulled from inside large boxes stacked along the inside wall of the unit.

“Those all fell off the backs of trucks,” Francis said, leaning over to speak in Remy’s ear.

Other unit doors were open as well, the spaces containing everything from patio furniture and stereo components to plasma televisions. Some of the units remained closed, but that didn’t prevent Remy from picking up some strange vibes from whatever was contained inside.

“What’s inside them?” Remy asked Francis, gesturing with his chin toward the closed units.

“That’s the shit that didn’t fall out of the backs of trucks,” Francis said, taking Remy’s elbow and leading him away from the elevator and into the main area.

In the far corner there was a makeshift desk made from a door and some cinderblocks, its surface covered with computer monitors, modems, and hard drives. Remy could hear a methodical clicking sound as someone typed on a keyboard behind the multiple computer screens.

“Give me just a sec,” said a voice, the words slightly slurred.

The thin man seemed to drift into the room, and Remy was again distracted by the multicolored halo that pulsed around his head.

The man was an Offspring, the child of a Denizen and a mortal. It was frowned upon by the higher powers, but it didn’t stop it from occasionally happening.

He remembered how sad Madeline had been when she realized they would never have children together. He’d tried his best to explain it, that there was usually something wrong with the babies—that they could even be dangerous. His wife had understood, but it did little to take away the hurt of what their love was denied.