Guardians of the Night (A Gideon and Sirius Novel)
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As the sole members of LAPD’s Special Cases Unit, Detective Michael Gideon and his German shepherd partner Sirius work investigations considered bizarre even by Los Angeles’s standards. Yet their latest case is more than strange—it might be out of this world.
Ronald “Wrong” Pauley is a homeless man long fallen from grace. When Pauley’s late-night drinking is interrupted by a detonation of light, he sees what he describes as a “being of light” in the alley below. Pauley tries to help, but ends up as a witness to what he believes is the murder of a fallen angel.
Gideon and Sirius are already in the midst of trying to determine the identity of the so-called “Reluctant Hero” who seemed to magically appear just moments after shots began ringing out at an elementary school. Braving gunfire, the hero tackled the shooter, and then disappeared.
Both cases defy easy answers, but when Pauley turns up dead, the detectives are left with two murders to solve and lots of questions. Gideon and Sirius—along with help from a newfound friend—investigate that thin line between the real and surreal to make sense of these possible crimes.
already up and walking toward his freezer. He’s always ready to look after Sirius at a moment’s notice and takes his parenting duties very seriously. In preparation of Sirius’s visits, he freezes patties of turkey and yam. Escoffier probably wouldn’t approve, but Sirius does. He loves his turkey yam burgers. “Want one?” Seth asked. He was serious. “Let me see, gobble-gobble orange-colored goo or hops and barley.” I tapped my empty bottle. “Your loss,” said Seth. “Sometimes I crumble
if you would lie again on the witness stand. Imagine this scenario: moments after raising your right hand and making your oath to God, my counsel would be asking you, ‘Detective Gideon, did you ever read my client his Miranda rights?’ If you lied again, wouldn’t that constitute a mortal sin? Wouldn’t that condemn you to hell?” “You seem awfully concerned with my spiritual well-being.” “As I said, I am trying to save you from what I am sure would be a terrible dilemma. That’s one of the
text alerts. “Ding dong! The witch is dead.” Elle Barrett Browning had finally gotten back to me. Her text was brief: C U Mulholland Scenic Overlook west of the 405 just off Mulholland at 10 p.m. I M driving black Tesla Model S. Let’s meet near fire road at top of trail. I texted back: I’ll be there. I wondered at Elle’s choice of spots. In some ways it made sense. The Mulholland Overlook offered a way of hiding in plain sight, at least at night. The overlook was convenient to the
though I had argued that our cases dovetailed. Holt had done what cops call a Bigfoot, taking over anything having to do with the case and moving me aside. “What do you want?” “You and Drew Corde had a fairly lengthy conversation a few hours ago. I need to know what you talked about.” “You’re calling me in the middle of the night to ask that?” “I’m calling the people Corde talked to on his cell phone yesterday, and you happen to be among that number.” “He died?” “You catch
and on a clean page of paper wrote the words “Forbidden love.” That sufficiently silenced the “Pop Goes the Weasel” music and allowed me to get on with my work. On another fresh piece of paper I wrote, “Drew Corde.” I had read the media reports, but I needed more than that. I called Dave Holt’s cell number and was pleasantly surprised when he picked up. “I’m surprised a celebrity like you would talk to a nobody like me,” I said. Holt and the other Robbery-Homicide detectives working