Chapter Text
Chapter One
Beatrice Elena Espinoza is many things. She is 27 years old. She has degrees in Criminology (thanks, Mom and Dad) and Art History (thanks, Lucifer and Amenadiel). She is a third-degree black belt in Tae Kwan Do, a second degree in Karate, and is currently working on her first degree in Kung Fu (thanks, Maze). She is a newly-minted FBI agent assigned to art forgery and theft crimes.
Beatrice Elena Espinoza is also no longer many things. She is no longer Trixie (except to all of the aforementioned parental and sub-parental figures). She is no longer a child in need of protecting from bad guys who might kidnap or kill her. She is no longer ignorant of the… weirdness that is her extended family. She is no longer in therapy.
She should probably still be in therapy.
***
“Espinoza, have you reviewed the file on the Milkovic case?”
It was 7:23 in the morning. It was a Tuesday. Beatrice had most certainly not reviewed that file, except for briefly the previous Friday evening while drinking a glass of excellent Merlot in her apartment. “Of course, Sir,” she responded. It was the only acceptable answer.
“Excellent. Then you’re ready for today’s tasking up to the Archives?”
“Yes, Sir,” she nodded, grateful that her coffee was already in a to-go cup. It made her look better prepared than she actually was for whatever the Milkovic case was about.
Slowly, bells started ringing in the back of her memory--she might not have been over-prepared that morning, but she wasn’t stupid. “Milkovic is requesting extradition of a painting from an American museum to Ukraine--18th century, Swiss, depicting…” and she trailed off, remembering why she’d closed the file and indulged in the half-bottle of that Merlot last Friday.
“The fall of Lucifer, yes, Agent Espinoza.”
Beatrice tapped on her tablet to wake it, and quickly found the file. She stared at the image for a moment before her attention snapped back to Senior Special Agent Tyler. “Painted in 1781 by Henry Fusli, it’s potentially a lost fourth painting in his Milton trilogy. Donated to the Getty Museum in 1954, shortly after its opening, by an anonymous donor, currently held in their permanent collection in Los Angeles.”
“Which I know, Agent Espinoza, because I’ve read the file.” Tyler was not amused, and also clearly suspected that Beatrice was just as unprepared this morning as she felt. “Your task at the Archives this morning is to review import records, and if we’re lucky to identify the anonymous donor. Milkovic’s case is reasonable--Getty says they’ve turned over all the documentation on that painting, but there’s no Customs receipt from when it was supposedly legally imported. With renewed press interest in artwork that was stolen from Jewish families by the Nazis and and then sold or donated to our museums it’s in our best interest to be thorough.”
Get your head in the game, Trix, she admonished herself. The last thing she needed was to get on her supervisor’s bad side weeks before her first annual evaluation. “You can count on me, Sir.”
“Good. I’ll expect your report on my desk by COB.” He turned to go, then paused and looked back at her, “And Espinoza, in the future I’d recommend that you start with the coffee a bit earlier.”
***
Little things change in apartment 103 before big things do.
New coffee appears in the cabinet as if by magic one morning, along with a noisy burr grinder because now they have beans instead of grounds in the bag. Trixie isn’t yet old enough at that point for her mom to make a pot big enough for them to share, so she mostly cares about the noise that the grinder makes. While it ranks fairly low on the scale of things-a-kid-notices-about-her-parents, she’s woken up by it often enough to consider asking her mom why she’s switched to louder coffee. Then again, the arrival of the grinder also coincides with Lucifer’s increased presence at their apartment in the early mornings, and in her mom’s improved moods. Ultimately, she’d decides not to ask. Frankly, after Rome she’s stopped asking a lot of questions she has about her mom and Lucifer’s relationship, and if her mom chalks it up to tween angst that’s fine with her.
***
The National Archives was one of Beatrice’s favorite places. She’d spent enough time here in the 18 months since she’d graduated from Quantico to know most of the security staff and reference librarians by name, and there was something inherently thrilling about the notion that underneath the lid of every archival box of records and artifacts lay answers to mysteries no one had yet thought to solve. The fact that it was one of the most meticulously climate-controlled buildings in the swamp of DC didn’t hurt either, especially in the dead of summer when even the short 10-minute walk from the Metro to the Archives building had left the back of her neck coated in sweat and her ponytail frizzy from the humidity.
Unfortunately, on that particular day she hadn’t been able to answer any of her questions about the painting. The archivist assigned to work with her had been able to find Customs receipts for a dozen similar works brought into the country from Europe during the first half of the 20th century, but none of the descriptions matched the Milkovic painting. While it wasn’t a true dead end for the case, it did mean that whoever the painting’s donor had been, they probably hadn’t imported it legally. Even if it wasn’t stolen, the Getty definitely shouldn’t have accepted the donation without proof of legal import, which probably wouldn’t amount to more than a slap on the wrist for them, but was definitely going to create some paperwork for Beatrice to file before she went home that night
As she crossed the street back to the Metro station, her wrist buzzed slightly, and Beatrice glanced down at her watch to see a message from her mother. Hey Monkey, just wanted to check in. Hope work is going well! How’s Travis?
Beatrice rolled her eyes slightly. While Chloe Decker had been an excellent homicide detective and now ran her former department skillfully enough that its clearance rate was among the highest in LAPD history, she had never, ever been good at subtlety. Hi, Mom. Frustrating case right now. Haven’t heard from Travis in a couple of weeks. We’re really over this time.
She briefly thought about actually calling her mother to talk through the case, weighing it against the probability that her mom would want to talk about her love life. She’d seen her mom at work often enough to know that she was an excellent problem-solver, and that she rarely found herself stuck in an investigation because she was good at thinking through new angles to approach problems that left others stumped. What would you do if you couldn’t find any records or documentation about a piece of critical evidence? You know a thing exists and must have a paper trail, but it’s just not where it’s supposed to be?
Beatrice boarded her train to Foggy Bottom, took hold of the pole in the middle of the car, and checked her watch again. No response yet. Well, it was a long shot that anything her mother could suggest without specific details would be truly helpful, and she wasn’t about to share confidential FBI case information in public, even if it was with her mother.
The car was unusually empty for a late afternoon in July. A handful of heat-bedraggled tourists were bunched together near the doors, a pair of teenagers made out at the end of the car, and a few commuters in the DC uniform of suits and tennis shoes took up most of the single seats in the middle. Pivoting slightly on her heel, she noticed a man wearing a beige raincoat and a Nationals baseball cap standing just a few feet behind her, hanging on to one of the horizontal bars that ran above the molded plastic seats. She half-wondered why anyone would be wearing a coat in the blazing July heat, but just then her watch buzzed again.
I’d canvass for anyone who’s had contact with the evidence. If you know even a piece of the chain of custody, you may be able to find another and so on. Especially if the evidence is something other people would find valuable or important, somebody knows something. She mulled over her mother’s idea for a moment. The Getty had sworn that they had turned over everything they had from the donor, but maybe there was something else she hadn’t seen. She’d need to call them anyway about the missing Customs paperwork when she got back to her desk-
“He’s got a gun!” screamed one of the tourists, breaking Beatrice out of her reverie. Instinctively she dove for the floor, reaching for her own service weapon while scanning the car to figure out where the gunman was. Her eye landed on Raincoat Man, and on the rifle he was now pointing straight at her.
“I’m Agent Beatrice Espinoza with the FBI,” she shouted, “Drop your weapon!”
The man shook his head, and she could see that he was older than she’d originally realized. Like, a lot older. Definitely at least 70, and with a hand tremor that was either the result of nerves or his age.
“Look, there are a lot of innocent people on this train--you need to put down your weapon or I’m going to have to shoot you,” she said, pitching her voice at the soothing-but-authoritative tone they’d taught during de-escalation training at the Academy. “Whatever your problem is, it’s not going to get solved if you don’t lower your gun.”
The man shook his head again, more emphatically this time. Just then, the train began to slow, and Beatrice saw the man’s eyes widen. This was it, she was going to have to shoot him before the doors opened and people tried to come into the car.
BANG
She heard, more than felt the explosion that knocked her back on her heels. Her head cracked against one of the seats, and her last thought before the darkness swallowed her was, “Shit, Mom is going to freak out.”