Angel drained the last of his coffee, swallowing the dregs with an ill-conceived grimace. Cordelia had her back turned, however, and piped up as he put the cup down beside her, "oh, you're done already!" She grabbed the pot and made to fill it up again, and Angel hastily put a hand out to stop her. "What, don't you like--"
Doyle opened the office door, muttering to himself over an open newspaper he was pouring over. Cordelia dropped the coffee pot, forgetting instantly about coffee, or Angel standing there. Angel gave a little sigh of relief, and surreptitiously hid his cup behind a stack of St. Lucian's diaries that they'd bought recently from a bookstore up in Beverly Hills.
"What're you engrossed in?" Cordelia asked Doyle, as he almost walked into the two of them making his way to the couch. He glanced up briefly, then went back to the front page of the paper, which he was scanning intently. Cordelia stood there with her hands on her hips for a few minutes, bracelets jangling. "Hello, earth to the Irish guy."
Both he and Angel looked up, and Angel raised an eyebrow briefly. Cordelia rolled her eyes, but Doyle just grinned. "Sorry, princess. Just catching up on the news."
"Is that Mr. [dentist's] newspaper again, Doyle?" she asked, hands still on her hips. He glanced at Angel. She shook a finger at Doyle. "Because you know that if you keep stealing his mail he's gonna like, report us or something and then we'll have to make a run for it."
"Look," Doyle started, but Angel -- leaning against the back railing away from the sun -- held a hand up. "Anyway, I was just trying to get some more details on those murders."
"Murders?" Cordelia asked him, reluctantly.
Angel was still leaning casually, but he ducked his head for a moment, and when he looked up again, he muttered, "The kids?"
Doyle folded the paper up carefully, laying it out beside him on the sofa. "The kids. Apparently the police found another one. Mutilated this time," and his Adam's apple bobbed, "down in a park in Santa Monica."
"Their poor parents," Cordelia murmured.
"That's the third one this month," Doyle added, looking at both of them, eyes intent. "The cops are calling it unrelated, but I'd bet twenty quid that there's something they're leavin' out of the papers."
"Can't we *do* something?" Cordelia said suddenly. "I mean, we're here to fight the forces of evil, right?" She looked at Angel, eyes pleading.
Angel blinked slowly. "It's true, there aren't many things more evil than someone who likes to carve up little kids like a roast dinner." He paused. "I know I used to like to do it."
Immediately, Cordelia blanched, and held her stomach. "Please," she replied, "don't ever mention that again, okay? Okay."
"Sorry," he answered apologetically. "I called Kate yesterday," Angel added, "and she hasn't gotten back to me." He stood up, off the railing. "Maybe I should investigate tonight."
"right," Doyle piped up, and then his eyes started to bulge. Recognising an impending vision, Cordelia ran for the legal pad on her desk while Angel gripped his shoulder tightly. Doyle closed his eyes, pressing a palm to his eye socket desperately, jaw locking and fingers stretched, flexed with tension. His body went rigid, and he groaned. "Okay," he said, eyes still closed, "a girl, maybe twelve, blonde. Off Wilshire somewhere," and he opened his eyes. They stared at him as he looked back in horror. "oh, god," Doyle said, "he's gonna cut her tongue out."