Even Villains Have Interns (8 page)

So, she’d almost been shot. No big deal. It
happened. She’d survived close encounters before.

But never with casualties after. Victimless
crime. Stealing from thieves. Never delivering more bodies to the
morgue.

“Are you all right?” Freddie asked.

She nodded, shoving the fear aside. “I hate to
be cliché, but who was that masked man upstairs? Did we stumble
into the Golden Hunt?”

“Control has the pixies quartering the building
now,” Freddie assured her. “We’re doing everything we can to find
him.”

Delilah studied the man in the ski mask,
bleeding across the back seat of her cab. The right side of the
Spirit’s black shirt was sticky with blood. “Hand me the first aid
kit. We need to staunch the bleeding. Do The Company records say if
he’s fast healer? Can I let him sleep this off in a hotel
somewhere?”

Freddie handed her the kit and helped move the
Spirit’s arms so she could cut away his black polyester suit. “The
Company has no record of him being able to form a corporeal body.
They also have no known alias, address, or any other information on
him. He’s a ghost.”

“He’s a human who lied to The Company,” Delilah
said as she dug in the kit for scissors. “Ghosts, as a general
rule, don’t exist. He’s probably like Maria, able to make illusions
and control light or something. Maybe be in two places at once.”
She cut his shirt free and winced in sympathy. The bullet had torn
a hole in his abdomen.

“It missed the lungs,” Freddie said. “He might
still live.”

“Yeah.” She stuffed sterile gauze in the wound
and tried to wrap it. “Take his mask off. I want to see who he
is.”

Freddie tugged at the black ski mask and
revealed a blond man with a face that she would have said reminded
her of the better Greek gods if he didn’t look exactly like
Alderman Adale.

“
Merde
.”

Freddie hissed, as close as he ever came to
swearing. “This isn’t good.”

“You’re telling me. We can’t let him die. Three
superheroes in a year isn’t coincidence; it’s targeted racial
violence.”

“Two dead mayors in less than a week is also a
noticeable trend.”

Delilah touched Adale’s face. Still warm, thank
all the lucky stars in the firmament, but when she forced his eye
open he showed no signs of waking. She shook her head. “Okay. Game
plan. We need to create a crime scene outside Adale’s apartment.”
As an afterthought she turned her earpiece on. “Control, did you
copy that? Crime scene at Adale’s place. I want shots reported to
the police. Get someone on the radio, I want to know when the
shooting at the Clousson building gets reported and what they
say.”

“Copy that,” Control chittered.

“Freddie, give me your clothes, we need to get
Adale dressed as something other than a second-story man. If The
Company doesn’t know what he is, I want to keep it that way.” She’d
flirted with Alan Adale. Had he guessed? When he approached her at
the Field Museum a few hours ago, had he been trying to tell her he
knew? “I can’t believe I killed my first date in years.”

“He’s not dead yet,” Freddie said, pulling his
jacket closer. “And outing him might prove beneficial for our long
range plans in the city.”

She held out her hand. “Revealing the pro tem
mayor as a super-powered freak is going to throw the city into
chaos and make him the target of every big game hunter out there.
Atlanta’s Golden Hunt is already working in Chicago. For all we
know, the shooter was following Alan.” That made her stomach leap.
What if they
had
been following him? “I need a background
check on Adale finished. Everyone he’s talked to. Every meeting.
Every hour accounted for. Start a file on the mayor and start
cross-referencing everything he did with what Adale was doing. Find
all the points of connection.”

Her minion-in-chief frowned, bulbous eyes
protruding further than usual under feathery eyebrows. “What are
you thinking?”

“I’m wondering if Adale wasn’t the target all
along. Maybe someone knew who he was after dark, and Arámbula was
just collateral.”

“It’s coincidence,” Freddie insisted.

She shook her head. “That was a well-timed
encounter. Too well done for my comfort. Now, stop arguing and hand
me your pants.”

Freddie grumbled under his breath. “Aren’t you
going to look the other way?”

“What? What are you trying to hide? You’re part
frog, part plant. You don’t even have genitalia!”

“I have modesty!”

She rolled her eyes and faced the window,
watching the Christmas lights dance on the snow until she felt
Freddie’s pants slap on her hand.

“Hand tailored, I’ll have you know. Custom made
just for me!”

“By a minion we keep at the castle,” Delilah
shot back as she loosened Adale’s belt. “This is so awkward.” A hot
blush crept up her neck and she giggled. “See, you mentioned
modesty and now I feel bad about stripping an unconscious man.”

Hudson laughed in the front seat, sounding more
like an avalanche. “We’re about to kick the guy out bleeding into
the snow and you feel bad about seeing his undies?”

She turned to Freddie for help. He was laughing
at her too. “Shut up! This is not enthusiastic consent! I don’t
want to... molest him.”

“Just shut your eyes,” Freddie said. “I’m
genderless, no reproductive organs, so I can’t molest anyone.
Right?”

“Right.” She shut her eyes firmly. No peeking
allowed.

“What kind of underwear is that?”

Ha!
She peeked. “Those are running
shorts.”

“Fond of black, isn’t he.”

“Shut up and put the pants on him. And,” she
said, noticing the bandage was soaking through, “get him some more
gauze.”

“Someone is going to notice he’s stripped and
treated. Shouldn’t we... You know... Leave him for the
doctors?”

“Gauze!” She pulled the soaked dressing away. A
hard lump gleamed sullenly in the cab-light. “His body expelled the
bullet. That’s good, right?”

“Coming up on the hospital,” Hudson said.
“There’s two police cruisers at the ER door and an ambulance
unloading.”

“Pull up, we’ll push him out on the far side so
they don’t see in. Freddie, you better switch with Hudson when we
slow down, we’ll need to evade like the very devil was on our
tail.”

“Ya think?”

“Less snark, more minioning!”

Freddie snorted.

Hudson slowed the car. “Switch... now!”

Freddie threw the door open, helped Delilah
shove Alan Adale into the snowdrift, and hopped into the seat
Hudson was hastily vacating. They sped off, leaving the alderman
bleeding in the dirty snow.

Dear Daddy,

Freddie says he needs more pants. His
measurements are attached. Don’t ask. Just... don’t ask.

D

Bright sunlight was obstructed by the blocky
body of Detective Morrow. Alan turned away and tried to make sense
of the pain. Machines. Beeping. Squeaking wheels. Nothing he
associated with home.

“How are you feeling?” the detective asked.

“Sore. Confused. Um... This is a hospital, isn’t
it?”

“John H. Stroger Junior,” Morrow confirmed.

Alan nodded and instantly regretted it. Bright
lights twinkled in his vision, gradually fading to black spots.
“Home sweet home. I wonder if the nurse who named me still works
downstairs.” He blinked the last of the spots away and found
Detective Morrow’s eyes. “Pertinent question, why am I here?”

“Someone shot you.”

“What?”

Morrow sat down beside the hospital bed. “Last
night, around eleven thirty, you were shot outside your home.”

“Shot? In Chicago? No. No, no-no. We have the
lowest incident of gun crime in the country. People do not get—”
His words slurred.
What was in that IV?
“People do not get,
shot,” he enunciated clearly.

“Uh-huh. How you planning on explaining the
bullet hole that ripped your side open?”

Alan looked down at his aching right side.
“Um...”

“You were shot.” A notebook appeared as if by
magic.

“Cute trick.”

“I do parties,” Morrow said, pulling a pen out
of his jacket pocket. “Now, what do you remember about last
night?”

A cluttered mess of colors and shapes gabbled
for attention in his mind. “There was a—” Not a girl, couldn’t say
girl, that sounded too young “—a woman. At the apartment. We
talked.” Flirted. Most assuredly flirted. “We talked.”

“Do you remember what you talked about?”

Lock picks. “Stuff.”

“And did she have a gun?”

“No. No.” He shook his head against the pain.
“She didn’t hurt me.” The fragments of the night before started
piecing themselves together. Locke in the hall with her steampunk
gear. Flirting. An elevator. A man? Probably a man, stepping out of
the elevator with a gun. “How did I get here?” he whispered to
himself.

Morrow leaned forward. “What?”

“How did I get here?” Alan asked, louder. “I
don’t remember that part.”

The detective cleared his throat and pulled out
an electronic file pad. “According to the nine-one-one report, two
calls came from your area reporting the sound of gun shots. First
call was at nine-twenty-seven, the second at nine-thirty-one. The
second caller reported that they saw a gray sedan driving fast down
the street. A traffic camera in your neighborhood picked up a gray
sedan doing seventy at nine-thirty-three. Indiana plates. We ran
it, the car was reported stolen two months ago. No joy there.”

“I was kidnapped?” That didn’t work. Delilah had
no reason to help him. No reason not to expose him.

Not unless their flirtation meant more to her
than she was letting on. The drugs were clearing out of his system
fast now that he was awake and focusing. “I hate to ask, but what
was I wearing when I was brought in?”

“Same thing you wore to the party last night;
black slacks, dress shoes, no shirt. Someone took it off and tried
to bandage you up. The pants were ripped at the hem.”

His eyebrows went up. “Is that the usual MO for
an attempted murder? Wouldn’t it be easier to let me bleed to
death?”

The detective shrugged. “The running hypothesis
at the station is that it was a case of mistaken identity. Most of
our violent crimes are related to domestic violence now. The girl
you were with, she’s not married is she?”

“No, not that I’m aware of. No ring or
anything.” He’d checked the first time they’d met, and every time
since. Delilah wasn’t Chicago’s most eligible bachelorette, but she
was in the top ten and making the boys in town work for her
attention.

“Can you give me her name so I can check it out,
just in case?” Morrow asked.

“Um...” There wasn’t a good answer to that. “We
aren’t... We weren’t... This was not...”

Morrow rolled his eyes. “You’re a politician,
Adale, not a saint. Just spill already.”

“She doesn’t want to be in the spotlight. We
weren’t going public with the relationship yet. It’s too early. I
don’t want people harassing her.” Close enough to the truth.
Probably closer than the truth would sound. But Morrow didn’t look
like he was buying it. “I’ll call her when I get home and see if
she’ll talk to you.”

A familiar face poked around the corner.

Morrow turned and frowned. “Chief Wyte, good to
see you.” The detective glanced over his shoulder at Alan. “Do you
want visitors? He was out in the foyer when I came in this
morning.”

Alan nodded to the chief of police. “Hello.”
Wyte had been one of Mayor Arámbula’s poker buddies. He was always
around when you didn’t need him, always subtly putting down the
people around him, always ready to schmooze his way into power and
money. “Coming to check on the walking wounded?”

“I’m just being neighborly.” Wyte patted Morrow
on the shoulder as he walked past. “Great job, Detective. Why don’t
you take a break while I chat to my buddy here?” The snake oil all
but dripped off him.

Morrow peered over the chief’s shoulder and
waited for a nod from Alan before he left. The detective was good
people.

“Chief,” Alan said, refocusing his attention. “I
wasn’t expecting you to stop by.”

“Really?” Wyte put a hand to his chest as if he
were hurt. “Come on, Alan. We’ve been friends for how long and you
didn’t think I’d come out to check on you?”

“Have we ever spoken without Arámbula around?”
Alan asked.

Wyte sighed. “You wound me. I know you like put
on the Man of the People act, but come on, Adale. We’re cool,
right?”

There was a knock on the door and Alan’s side
burned when he sucked in his breath.

“Delilah Samson.” Wyte moved in like a
heat-seeking missile.

The steampunk Locke was nowhere to be seen in
the perfection of Chicago style that Delilah wore as her day
costume. Her dark hair was pulled up in an elegant twist and her
flawless skin was framed by a tailored purple suit so dark it was
almost black. He coughed to hide a snarl when Wyte reached for
her.

“Chief Wyte,” Delilah held out her hand like she
expected him to bow and kiss her fingertips. Wyte almost did. That
woman could wrap men around her finger like nobody’s business. “I
heard you were here.”

Alan scowled. Delilah’s gaze flickered to him
and she winked. It was enough.

“What can I do for you, Miss Samson? Name it,
and it’s yours.”

She fluttered her eyelashes, the little
coquette. “Can you make rocket launchers legal in this city?”

“Um.” Wyte stumbled over the request, but Alan
could see the wheels in his head turning as he tried to think of a
way to make it happen. “Well...”

Delilah laughed. “I’m teasing! All I need is to
borrow a few plain-clothes police officers for Addison’s New Year’s
Eve party.”

Alan rolled his eyes. Petty jealousy was not
attractive, he told himself firmly. And he wasn’t jealous. Delilah
flirted with people. She probably did it without thinking. It
wasn’t her fault Wyte was tripping over her like some under-sexed
pimply teen waiting for his first kiss.