Wearing The Cape: Villains Inc. (5 page)

“Any luck finding the owner of the deposit box?”

“Not yet.
 
Mr. Ross’s office is closed while he’s ‘on vacation.’”

Phelps coughed behind us, and Fisher grimaced.

“The crime-scene photographers have recorded every inch of the place, but I wanted you here before we started moving anything around.”

“Where should I start?”

“Start here—you can look at the other rooms later.
 
And leave the box alone.”

I nodded, lifting high enough to make sure my feet stayed a couple of inches off the mess.
 
Air-walking was easy if I wasn’t trying for speed.

The long living room probably took up half of the condo’s square footage.
 
A huge plasma TV on one wall told me where the entertainment area had been, and the ceiling along the inner wall had been rigged with track lights to illuminate a row of paintings (mostly impressionistic, but colorful—Mr. Moffat had good taste).
 
A bar separated the kitchen from the dining area at the far end.

Focusing on the piles of chips and pieces, I frowned.
 
I looked at the walls again, then, holding my short cape aside, touched down and squatted to study what had to have been a couch.

Fisher removed his unlit cigarette.
 
“What do you see?”

“I don’t know.
 
I…”
 
I shook my head, at a loss.
 
Phelps snorted, but this time Fisher ignored him.

“Can you tell me what’s bugging you?”

I looked at the walls again.
 
“I don’t…
 
The first thing is, this was a heavy couch.
 
Good leather, thick stuffing, heavy springs and wood. Someone shredded it like tissue.”
 
I groped for the thought.

“Go on.”

“Whoever did this was
strong
.
 
He had to use a lot of force.
 
But there’s not a mark on the TV or the walls and you’d think pieces of couch flying everywhere would at least scratch the wallpaper.
 
Especially the metal bits.”

“And?”

I moved back a couple of feet.
 
“The couch-pieces are all where the couch was.
 
And right here there was a coffee table? All the bits of glass are right where
it
was.
 
It looks like there were two more chairs, an end table, maybe a couple of tall lamps?
 
All their bits are right where they should be, no spread.”

The unmarked walls suddenly seemed unnerving as I tried to picture it.

“I can’t imagine what did this.
 
And why?
 
It’s so organized, methodical.
 
None of this was exploded—there’s no
scatter
.
 
It was shredded in place, everything contained.”
 
I had a nightmare image of some kind of flying wood-chipper.
 
“Where’s Mr. Moffat?”

“We think he’s in the box.
 
Astra?”

I realized I’d started to hyperventilate.
 
Folding my arms, I breathed slowly.

“
No
.
 
He’d have to be…”

Fisher nodded.
 
“In as many pieces as the furniture.
 
Actually it’s worse; he’s soup.
 
And there’s not a piece of bone bigger than a toothpick.”

I had never fainted in my life, but thought I might be about to have the experience; I stared at the evil box, and my face felt icy.

“Then how do you know it’s him?”

“We don’t; we’re going to have to wait on DNA analysis and that’ll take a few days.
 
But security footage shows him coming in and not going out.”

“But did the cameras see what got in here after him?”

He shook his head.
 
“No.
 
And if he’s really in the wind we’re going to lose days.”

I swallowed.
 
“I think I can help you with that.”

“Oh, come on!”
 
Phelps protested.
 
“Your nose isn’t
that
good!”

Fisher scowled.
 
“Shut up Phelps.”

“No—just, no!” The thought of
opening
that box and sniffing its contents made me go wobbly again.
 
I looked outside; night had fallen.
 
“But I know someone who can tell you what’s—who’s—in there.”

Breakthrough (noun, often attributive): in warfare, an offensive thrust that penetrates and carries beyond a defensive line, an act or instance of breaking through an obstacle, a sudden advance especially in knowledge or technique.
 
In modern usage, the spontaneous display of superhuman powers, usually triggered by traumatic or life-threatening events, but sometimes in response to extreme emotional states.

Webster’s Dictionary

I made the call through Shelly, and Fisher filled me in while we waited.
 
A downstairs neighbor out on his balcony had heard a noise, something like an explosion that took longer, and called 911.
 
Mr. Moffat being a Person of Interest, when his neighbor gave the address a flag went up with Fisher’s department. They arrived right after the patrolman sent to check it out.

The detective had me do a quick walk-through of the rest of the condo, but it looked like all the action had happened in the living room and we were back there when Officer Wyatt swore and Artemis stepped in from the balcony.

A vampire, Artemis traveled as a cloud of mist nearly invisible in the open air.
 
Vampires hadn’t really existed before the Event, aside from a few sad, sick souls who believed themselves to be
nosferatu
.
 
But then,
godzillas
hadn’t either.

“Detective Fisher,” I said.
 
“Allow me to introduce Artemis.
 
Artemis, Detective Ron Fisher.”

“Detective.”
 
She nodded, looking him over as he did the same.
 
Tall, pale, and model-thin, she dressed in a black leather
catsuit
with lots of straps and buckles. A deep hood cast her face in shadow, and she wore a half-mask sculpted to suggest the sharp planes of a skull.
 
She also wore four guns—two in shoulder-holsters and one low on each hip.
 
Standing next to her, I looked like a schoolgirl playing superhero.
She
looked sexy and dangerous as hell.

“Pleased to meet you, Artemis.” Fisher extended his hand.
 
“Astra tells me you can answer a question for us.”

She smiled thinly as they shook.
 
“I do have a nose for blood.
 
You want to identify a victim?”

“What will you need?”

“Was it a man?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see his razor.”

I waved Mr.
Moffat’s
shaving kit, giving her a cautious smile. “I got it.”

She accepted it without expression, and pulled out a twin-blade razor.
 
Holding it to her nose, she inhaled thoughtfully.

“Well?” Phelps asked impatiently. Fisher winced, but Artemis just looked amused.

“He cut himself recently.
 
Blood type A positive.
 
Heavy meat-eater, likes to drink.
 
Not in great shape, developing kidney problems.”

Fisher laughed.
 
“No need to show off, but how can you tell?”

“Blood type’s easy, his iron is really high, and his kidneys aren’t filtering his blood properly.”

“Could you tell me if he’d been taking drugs?”

“Depends on how recent, but his blood smells clean.
 
So where is he?”

Fisher pointed to the box.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.
 
Before we open it, since you’re here could you tell me if you can smell any blood traces anywhere else?”

“Show me around?”

“Right this way.”
 
He politely waved her towards the door leading to the hall leading to the den and bedrooms.

That left me alone with Detective Phelps and Officer Wyatt.
 
Phelps turned away.
 
I shrugged.

“How are the kids, Jimmy?” I asked Wyatt.
 
His face lit up.

“Little Madison’s walking,” he reported proudly.
 
“And Johnny’s on the honor roll this year.
 
He still puts up drawings of you.”

“Meeting his class was fun.”

Before my popularity crashed
Quin
had had me doing all sorts of public-relations events; I’d especially liked the school visits and tours. I smiled, reminded I’d made a good impression on
somebody
. He took out his wallet to show me the family pictures, and I made the obligatory but sincere compliments before handing them back.

“Jimmy?”
 
I said softly.
 
“Why all this?
 
I thought Mr. Moffat was an innocent bystander in the bank job?”

Wyatt frowned.
 
“He might have been, miss. Might not. Either way, Detective Fisher thinks the bonds are probably Outfit money. They might have done this just to make a point.”

“But—”
 
Artemis and Fisher were back, circling the living room.
 
She shook her head, and he looked frustrated.
 
He made a note.

“I’ll have them look for blood trace anyway.
 
But thank you.”

“You’re saying there’s nothing?”
 
Phelps asked skeptically.

“That’s what she’s saying, detective.”
 
He tapped the box with his foot.
 
“Are you ready?”

She smiled.
 
“I’m not squeamish, Lieutenant.
 
But I appreciate your concern.”

“Okay, then.”
 
He lifted the wood lid with his gloved hand, and the copper smell sharpened.
 
I didn’t feel the slightest temptation to go over and look; instead I watched Artemis.

She dropped her smile.
 
“Now that’s just…wrong.”

“Tell me about it,” Fisher agreed, the cigarette back in his mouth.

“May I?”

He handed her a rubber glove and she pulled it over her own.
 
When she dipped a finger in the stuff I took a sudden interest in the paintings.
 
The third one from the right, a happy eruption of birds, was pretty good, and I made a mental note to find out if the artist was local.

“It’s him,” I heard her say.
 
“But not just him. There’s something else.”