Chapter Text
“It’s the fourth one in the last 10 days,” Ella said, straightening from where she was bent over the body.
“Same as the others?” Chloe asked.
Ella nodded. “Yeah. Gang tattoos, some coke in his pocket, empty waist holster. He’s a criminal, and now he’s dead.”
Chloe sighed. “And we’ve got no leads on the killer still. Great.” She glanced over at Lucifer, who had his hands in his pockets and was evidently disinterested in what he’d already written off as a ‘boring’ case. “Lucifer!” she said. “We need all the brains we have on this one.”
He shrugged, elegantly. “It’s obviously someone with a grudge against criminals. Undoubtedly the poor sods who are being shot are going straight to Hell, and so will the killer. Surely it’s open and shut, Detective.”
“Open, because we can’t find the killer,” Chloe said, “and we have zero leads.”
Lucifer took his hands out of his pockets and surveyed the scene. “You’d normally call someone with a grudge against criminals a vigilante, I suppose. So we need someone who knows how vigilantes think to help us track the killer down.”
Chloe considered this, and nodded. “I guess, but that type of person is in short supply.”
Taking his phone out, Lucifer raised his eyebrows at her. “Don’t be so pessimistic, Detective. I think I know just the person.”
He walked away, the phone to his ear, and Chloe shook her head. Of course the Devil knew a vigilante, it seemed all too obvious. She watched Lucifer talk – a short, intense conversation – and then he slipped the phone back into his breast pocket and came back to her.
“I hope I’ve got us the help we need,” he said.
“You hope?”
“Well, in this situation, it’s me asking for the favour,” Lucifer said, and a faint look of distaste crossed his face. “Most unusual.”
Chloe folded her arms and gave him a look. “Who is it?”
“Oh, you know him,” Lucifer said, cheerfully. “Matthew Murdock, from New York.”
“The, um, the blind lawyer guy?” Chloe asked, wondering why someone who was definitely a good lawyer but also definitely blind and also only admitted in New York would be helpful.
“He has knowledge of Daredevil, and the other New York vigilantes,” Lucifer said. Chloe parsed the sentence, and couldn’t help shaking the feeling that Lucifer was choosing his words carefully. “He’s acted for some of them in court,” her partner added, with more certainty.
“And you think he’ll be useful here?” Chloe said. “I’m not sure in what capacity we can argue that we need a New York defence attorney on this case, but I guess I’ll find some way to spin it. If he turns up.” She turned back to look at the body. “God only knows we need the help.”
Lucifer sighed and shook his head at her. “He definitely won’t be any use.”
* * *
Matt put the phone down thoughtfully, and listened to see if Foggy was in his office. He was, apparently going over his statement for a trial starting the following week.
Crossing the empty reception area, Matt tapped at the doorframe. “Hey, Fogs,” he said, fiddling with his tie. “Can I ask you something?”
Foggy put down papers with what sounded like a relieved sigh. “Sure, buddy, and if it’s ‘is it time for lunch’, the answer is definitely yes.”
Matt checked his watch. “Nearly time for lunch,” he said, “but no, that wasn’t the question. Um. This is going to sound weird. What would you say if I took a few days out?”
“I’d say hallelujah,” Foggy said. “You never take enough time out. Wait. Do you mean time out of this job, or time out of the other one?”
“Kind of both and kind of neither,” Matt returned. “More, time out of the city.” He rubbed at his temple. “Erm, Los Angeles.”
There was silence for a moment, and then Foggy said, “I’m literally staring at you speechless right now, Matty. We only got you to Long Beach last year. And now you want to fly to Los Angeles?”
“I don’t know if I want to,” Matt objected. “Or even if I should. But I don’t know if I should say no to the guy who asked me.”
Foggy stood up with a scraping of his chair. “Right, lunch, now.”
They got subs from the deli, and took them to the nearby park. “Explain,” commanded Foggy, waving his sub in Matt’s direction; there was a waft of pickle.
Matt picked at the corner of his sandwich. “There’s a serial killer on the loose in LA, I’m told, and they think the killings are being carried out by a vigilante.”
“Who’s they?” Foggy asked, around a mouthful of his sub.
“The police,” said Matt. “And, um, the Devil.”
Foggy spluttered, coughed, and swallowed his mouthful. “I’m sorry what?” he said.
“A few years ago,” Matt said, putting his sub on the bench next to him, “this guy came to see me. When I had the red suit. Said his name was Lucifer Morningstar. Suggested I should stop using the name. And that he was the real thing.”
“I hate to say it, Matty,” said Foggy, “but I’m not sure the Devil is a thing.”
“Oh, he’s a thing,” Matt returned, remembering with a little shudder the stench of brimstone. “He came back, last year – remember we had that client who was suspected of involvement in an LA murder? He – Lucifer, I mean – he works with the LAPD, turned up to interview our client along with his partner.”
Foggy stopped eating, which was enough to tell Matt his mood. “Matt, the Devil’s not real, and if he was, why would he be working with the LAPD?”
“He says he’s on vacation,” Matt said, and found himself smiling. “Okay, that does sound stupid. But you gotta believe me, Fogs. We live in a world where there’s aliens, and dinosaur bones buried under Manhattan. Why not believe that the Devil exists too?”
“A valid argument, counsellor,” said Foggy. “But why go? Why’s he asking you?”
“I guess he thinks I could help track down this vigilante,” Matt said. “I’ve sort of got precedent, with Castle.”
“Do you want to go?”
Matt picked up his sub, and bit off the end while he thought. “I’m kind of terrified of the flight,” he admitted, after swallowing.
“Take sleeping pills,” Foggy advised, wisely. “It’s what most people do.”
“I hate sleeping pills,” objected Matt. He’d tried them, once or twice when the world got too loud, but always ended up having a kind of half-sleep and waking up with a mouth full of cotton wool.
“Is the flight the thing you’re most scared of?” Foggy asked. “Or the … this Lucifer guy? I mean the Devil’s supposed to be evil incarnate, right?”
Matt nodded. “But he says that’s just the Bible and misinterpretation,” he said. “And honestly, I believe him. Wilson Fisk was far more evil. It’s more that I just feel like it would be stupid to piss him off.” He reflected a moment. “And also, if there’s someone out there murdering in the name of vigilantism, I’d like to stop him.”
Finishing his sandwich, Foggy balled up the wrapper and aimed it at a nearby trashcan. It fell short, and he grunted in annoyance and got up to fetch the ball and pass it to Matt. Matt took it with a grin and lobbed it accurately into the bin.
“Then go,” Foggy said, sitting down again. “Karen and I can deal with cases while you’re gone. Might do you good, to get out of New York.”
“Yeah.” Matt took a deep breath. “Okay, yeah, I’ll go.” He fished his phone from his pocket and said to it, “New message to Lucifer Morningstar. Will come. Will send flight details when I have them. End message. Send.”
The phone bleeped to tell him the message had gone off successfully, and then barely 30 seconds later, bleeped again.
“New message from Lucifer Morningstar,” it said. “Car will pick you up from your apartment at 1800 hours, flight from Teterboro 1930. I will meet you in LA. Devil-face emoji. Message ends.”
Foggy seized the phone. “He really has used a devil-face emoji,” he said, in amazement. “Also, Teterboro? That means a private jet, Matty. Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.”
The car Lucifer had ordered arrived precisely on time outside Matt’s apartment. It smelt strongly of cleaning products and Matt cracked the window a little as he was whisked efficiently off Manhattan island and towards the airport.
Once there, helpful staff insisted on carrying his bag for him, which made him a little nervous – he’d left his batons behind, but the bag included his heavy boots, ropes and, rolled into a pair of socks, his mask. He hoped nobody would search it, but the helpful lady carrying it just put it straight through a metal detector and picked it up again.
Matt followed her, using his cane a touch more than he needed to, along an echoing corridor and out on to tarmac. There, for appearances’ sakes, he took the woman’s elbow as they crossed towards the plane.
The smell of gasoline was strong in the air and he held his breath as much as possible until he was safely up the steps and inside the plane. There, the gasoline smell diminished, but was replaced by artificial air, more cleaning products, and leather; he discovered on sitting down that the leather smell came from the seats.
After a little fumbling, Matt fastened the seatbelt and wondered what happened next. It turned out that next was the attendant asking him if he wanted a drink, and soon after delivering a glass of whiskey.
“We’ll be in the air in just a short while,” she told him. “If you need anything, there’s a call button just on your left. The flight’s about six hours so sit back and relax.”
“Thanks,” Matt said, his heart sinking, and wondering how he was going to get through the time.
“Oh,” the attendant added, passing a plastic-wrapped bundle to him, “Mr Morningstar said you might find these helpful.”
She walked away down the aisle and Matt opened the wrapping of the object he was holding. It turned out to be a pair of what felt like headphones. He was about to try them on when the pilot started the engines of the plane; the vibration ran straight through Matt’s body and the noise was deafening.
Amid the cacophony, he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. It was another message from Lucifer, telling him to put the headphones on, and turn on Bluetooth. Matt sighed to himself and obeyed the message.
The headphones, it turned out, were noise-cancelling. For Matt, that did not actually mean noise-cancelling, but at least it dulled the sound of the engines somewhat. He scrolled through the audiobooks on his phone and pressed play, had a gulp of whiskey, and tried to focus on the words in his ear rather than the rumbling of the plane.
He had to pause the book for a few minutes during take-off, as the plane accelerated and then lifted into the air. Matt found himself gripping the arms of his seat as the ground dropped away. His ears felt blocked and painful and the world was muffled for a few minutes, until he worked out how to equalise the pressure.
The sound of the engines was less intrusive now, and Matt found he could turn on the audiobook again and not think too much about the fact that he was thousands of feet in the air.
He was an hour into the book when the attendant appeared again, the subtle scent of her perfume cutting through the artificial air. Matt was about to pause his book when she tapped him, hesitantly, on the arm, and he remembered that he shouldn’t have noticed her arrival, given the fact he was wearing noise-cancelling headphones. He paused the book anyway and slipped the headphones off.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr Murdock, but wanted to ask you if you were hungry?” she asked. “I have a lasagne, or there’s a chicken and wine casserole.”
Matt wasn’t especially hungry, but he said he’d have lasagne. He put the book back on while the attendant bustled back and forth, setting out a placemat and silverware on the table in front of him, bringing him water, and eventually reappearing with a plate of lasagne, salad and bread. She tapped his arm again and he obediently took off the headphones once more.
“Bread at two o’clock, salad at ten, lasagne at six,” the attendant said brightly. “Enjoy!”
Matt thanked her and picked up his fork, and took a careful bite of the lasagne. He chewed, and swallowed, and put down the fork again. The meal was somehow bland yet salty at the same time, as though salt was the only flavour left in it.
He ate the bread, and the salad, which were both largely tasteless, and pushed the rest of the lasagne away. That meant he then had to apologise for not eating it when the attendant came back to clear the table, but she was unerringly polite about it and seemed to be genuine.
Matt listened to another half an hour of his book before turning it off and getting up to walk, carefully, about the cabin. He did some stretches and wished he was wearing something more comfortable than a suit, and then found his way back to the seat and turned on the audiobook again.
Time passed slowly. He listened to the book, and stretched, and walked, and listened some more. Every now and then the attendant came along to check on him, brought him another drink, and kept him up to date with their progress.
After what seemed like days, she arrived again to take away his empty glass and ask him to buckle in. “We’re on the descent now,” she said. “Have a mint to suck, it helps to equalise your ears.”
Matt took three, and found they did help with the pressure in his eardrums, but not with the stomach-churning terror he felt as the plane approached the ground and, with a bump, landed. But, apparently, he had survived, and he dictated a quick text to Foggy to tell him as much. Outside the door was a new state, and a mystery to crack.