Sentinels: The Omega Superhero Book Three (Omega Superhero Series 3)

by Darius Brasher

  I exited the stairwell onto the third floor. Lord’s office door was in the middle of the hallway, next to an accountant and across from an insurance agent. His dark brown wooden door was closed. I faintly heard music playing on the other side.

  “Truman Lord, Private Investigations” was spelled out in professional, gold-plated letters on the top half of the door. Under that were three small signs, written in black magic marker on yellow pieces of paper ripped from a legal pad. The first one read:

  QUIET!!! A sensational super sleuth, wise worldly wit, groovy gregarious gunslinger, and awesomely alliterative adult works wearilessly within.

  The second one read:

  Salesmen, proselytizers, and supervillains are shot on sight, so keep out. If you don’t know what proselytizer means, you keep out too. This is a high literacy zone.

  The third sign showed a crude drawing depicting two stick figures. The one on the right wore a fedora and held a gun pointed at the figure on the left. The words “POW! POW!” appeared over the gun. The stick figure on the left, which wore a black cape, lay on the ground, evidently bleeding based on the dots of red ink that dripped from it. “Curses! Foiled again by Truman the Terrific!” read the speech bubble over the prostrated figure’s head.

  After seeing the state of disrepair of the building and reading these ridiculous signs, I almost left. Due to what had happened to Hannah and me being exhausted from days of unsuccessfully searching for Antonio, I was hardly in a playful mood. I did not have the time nor the inclination to fool around with someone unserious. Only the knowledge that Lord had been the one to find Avatar’s murderer and the fact that Mr. Langley had recommended him made me swallow my annoyance. I knocked on Lord’s door instead of turning around and leaving.

  A man’s voice told me to come in. I opened the door. I took a moment to peer inside before entering. The room beyond the door was square. The carpeting was thin, almost threadbare. A small, ratty, old couch was against the wall. A metal file cabinet was next to it. On top of the cabinet was a coffee maker. The pot was half full. Next to the coffee maker was a small boombox. Music played out of it, something old, jazzy, and croony no doubt composed before I was born that my grandparents likely would have enjoyed.

  A bunch of the ceiling tiles of the office were warped and discolored, as if there had been a major water leak at some point. A window was on the other side of the room from where I stood. Its blinds were open, letting enough sun in that the overhead lights were off. In front of the window was a desk. Its thick, old wood looked like it had been salvaged from Noah’s Ark. A desktop computer was on top of it. Though the desktop was ancient, it still looked cutting-edge compared to how old the desk looked. In front of the desk were four battered chairs.

  The office was the opposite of ritzy and ostentatious. It matched the building housed it. If the office had not been spotless, I would have described it as seedy.

  Behind the desk sat Truman Lord. He was a white guy with a battered face wearing a maroon polo shirt. I recognized him from the pictures I had seen when he was in the news a lot due to Avatar’s murder. Though I had seen those pictures years ago, Lord looked the same. Though he was much older than I, I was struck by how there was a certain timeless quality to him, as if he had sprung out of his mother fully formed and would go to his grave the same way I saw him now.

  Other than that timeless quality, the first thing that struck me about him was his size. Even sitting, he was large and imposing. Not fat, but big-boned and well-muscled. His forearms looked like they could crack unshelled Brazil nuts if he pressed them together. Despite the preppy shirt he wore, there was a vaguely menacing, almost thuggish, air about him.

  “Though I know I’m pretty, you gonna just stand there with the door open and admire at me, or are you gonna come in?” he said to me, not unkindly. There was a slight, cocky smile on his face. He spoke with a hint of a Southern accent. “I’ve worked and slaved to accumulate an extensive fly collection. You’re letting them all out.”

  I stepped inside, closing the door behind me. Lord didn’t stand or offer to shake hands as I approached his desk. I once read that the tradition of men shaking hands developed as a way of demonstrating peaceful intentions by showing neither man had a weapon. If true, it explained why Lord didn’t offer a handshake. His right hand was below the lip of his desk where I could not see it. With my telekinetic touch, though, I sensed Lord had slid open the top right drawer of his desk. There was a large caliber gun inside. Though didn’t pick the gun up, his hand rested on the lip of the open drawer where he could get to the gun in a hurry. My chest tightened. I tried to keep the tension from showing on my face. In his defense, a man like Lord who was both a Hero and private detective had probably made a lot of enemies over the years. If I were him, I would keep a gun handy too.

  Notwithstanding my body’s automatic stress response, I wasn’t too worried. If Lord pulled his gun on me, he was in for a surprise. I could make him eat that gun if I wanted.

  With his left hand, Truman raised a small remote control and clicked off the music. There was a large glass bowl on the corner of his desk, like something you might serve punch from at a party. Rather than punch, water filled the bowl. In front of Truman on the desk was a thick open book. It was an English translation of the Bhagavad Gita, which was sort of like the Hindu equivalent of the Bible. I recognized this version of the English translation. I only knew of it because I had spent so much time with Neha, who was a practicing Hindu.

  Lord saw my gaze. He said, “Don’t be too impressed with my reading habits. I’m just looking at the pictures.”

  I was confused. “A friend of mine is Hindu. There aren’t any pictures in that edition. I don’t know if there are pictures in any edition.”

  The book thumped as Lord slammed it shut with his free hand. He looked at the book in disgust, as if it had tricked him. “Explains why I haven’t found any. The cover art duped me. I wish you had shown up hours ago. You could have saved me a lot of time and trouble. Oh well. I’ll try again with a different book later. You know what they say: Liber medicina animi.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s Latin.”

  “That much I knew,” I said.

  “It means ‘A book is the soul’s medicine.’ Or maybe it means, ‘Hello, I’m Julius Caesar and I’m lost. Which way to Rome?’ I’m not sure. My Latin is rusty.”

  Lord motioned at me slightly with his head at the chairs in front of his desk. I sat. I noticed there was a framed picture of a woman resting on the ledge of the window behind Lord. She was a very attractive redhead with a big toothy smile. Girlfriend or maybe wife, though Lord did not wear a wedding ring. Lord’s unseen right hand still rested on the lip of the open drawer containing the gun.

  Now that I was closer to him, I saw that his broad nose was slightly misshapen, as if it had been broken on more than one occasion. His knuckles were scarred and calloused. A fighter’s hands. There was scar tissue on his face, especially around his eyes. Both ears were slightly cauliflowered. There was something unapologetically masculine about the man. It all enhanced the thuggish vibe Lord had. If I hadn’t known he was a Hero and I met him in a dark alley, I would assume I was about to be mugged.

  “Mr. Lord, my name is Theodore Conley.”

  “Congratulations. Call me Truman. Mr. Lord is what you call God when you’re being formal. I’m not Him. Easy mistake to make though. Happens all the time.”

  “I work under Stan Langley at the Times.”

  “Congratulations again. Stan’s a big boy. You managing to squeeze from under him to come see me is quite an accomplishment.”

  “I know you’re both a licensed Hero and a private detective. Mr. Langley recommends you highly.” I was beginning to wonder why.

  “As well he should.”

  “I need some advice.”

  “More deadlifts and squats, fewer bench presses and bicep curls. Your lower body is underdeveloped compared to your upper body.” />
  I shook my head in irritation. “I don’t need weightlifting advice.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “Mr. Lo—Truman, I’m being serious.”

  “Me too. Leg day at the gym is a serious matter. It’s not to be joked about.”

  It was getting harder and harder to swallow my irritation. This was the jackass who had solved Avatar’s murder? First Mechano, now this joker. Was every Hero in this city a disappointment?

  “A friend of mine was murdered several days ago,” I said. Truman didn’t interrupt to make a stupid joke. If he had, despite his slightly menacing air and gun or no gun, I might have slugged him. “Her name is Hannah Kim.”

  “I remember reading something about that in the newspaper. Graphic artist at the Times, discovered in her residence with a hole blown through her?”

  “That’s her. I want to talk to you about finding her killer. I can pay you.”

  “I should hope so. I don’t work for free. I’d developed a strange habit over the years that requires money to support. It’s called eating.”

  I tried to ignore him. “The killer is Hannah’s boyfriend. A guy named Antonio Ricci.”

  “What makes you so sure he’s the killer? Were you there?”

  I suddenly realized there was intelligence behind Truman’s half-mocking eyes. I felt wary. Truman’s idiotic banter had made me careless. I’d forgotten I was talking to a Hero. Though I had been unimpressed by some of the Heroes I had met, I had yet to meet a stupid one. Except maybe me since I caused Hannah’s death. I needed to choose my words around Truman more carefully. I wasn’t willing to blow my secret identity by telling Truman about my run-in with Antonio before Hannah’s murder.

  “No. I’m assuming he’s the killer based on the police saying he’s a person of interest.”

  “Pretty big leap from him being a person of interest to him being a murderer,” Truman said.

  “Hannah had confided to me that Antonio abused her. Plus, the news says he’s a suspected member of the Esposito crime family. A guy like that is capable of murder.”

  “And since the police haven’t found Mr. Ricci yet, you want to hire me to do it?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Truman leaned back in his chair a little. His hidden hand was still near the gun. “And what’s your interest in all this?”

  “I already told you. Hannah was my co-worker and my friend.”

  “I’ve got a lot of friends. Not too many of them would rush out to hire a private investigator to find a guy who may or may not have killed me and who may or may not be on the run when the police have been looking for him for less than a week.”

  “What can I say? I’m a good friend.”

  “Apparently,” Truman said. “How long have you been friends with her?”

  “About six months.”

  “About six months,” Truman repeated. “You’re really going above and beyond the call of duty for someone you’ve known for only six months.” His look was assessing. “Were you in love with this girl?” he asked abruptly.

  “What? No, of course not. She had a boyfriend.”

  “Were you sleeping together?”

  “What was it about ‘she had a boyfriend’ didn’t you understand?”

  “And I have a girlfriend. That doesn’t stop women from beating down the door to get to me.”

  Now I was really irritated. “Weird. I didn’t see any women in the hall clamoring to get inside.”

  “The day is still young. They’re at work. Once it’s quitting time, it’ll look like the mother of all bachelorette parties in here.” Truman still stared at me. His gaze made me uncomfortable, like I was being examined under a microscope. “Do you know anything about Mr. Ricci other than what’s being reported in the media?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “What about the circumstances surrounding Ms. Kim’s murder?”

  “No. Are you going to help me, or are we going to play Twenty Questions?”

  “They’re not mutually exclusive. Your responses to the latter will determine the former. Let’s say I find Mr. Ricci for you. Then what? If you’re looking for a little eye for an eye retribution, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m not that kinda guy. Or would you be looking for me to turn him over to the police?”

  “Uh, I was hoping to have a chat with him first.”

  “You want to have a chat with him?” He emphasized the word in disbelief. “You, a guy wearing khakis and penny loafers who works for a newspaper, want to have a chat with a hardened criminal who works for the mafia? To find out the best place to buy brass knuckles that match your ensemble, perhaps?”

  “I guess I want to hear from the horse’s mouth why he would kill Hannah.” I was increasingly uncomfortable under Truman’s piercing gaze.

  The room fell silent. I heard traffic passing by on Paper Street below the office window. There was the faint sound of a woman talking in the office next door.

  “I’ve been in this business a long time,” Truman finally said. “I’ve developed certain instincts. Like when someone’s lying to me.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “Maybe a lie of omission, then. You’re definitely leaving stuff out of your little story. A friend who’s only a friend doesn’t run out and try to hire a private investigator when the victim’s body is barely cold and the police haven’t had a chance to get started investigating in earnest yet. If you had a romantic relationship with Hannah I could wrap my head around it. But just a platonic friend?” Truman shook his head. “There’s definitely something going on here you’re not telling me about. I’ve found over the years that when I stick my nose into a situation I don’t fully understand, it tends to get shot at. My nose isn’t much to look at, but it’s the only one I’ve got. I’m trying to hang onto it, not have it blown off thanks to swallowing the half-baked story of a young man I don’t know from Adam. Have you seen the Sphinx before? Someone shot its nose off a long time ago, probably because the Sphinx was silly enough to stick its nose where it didn’t belong. It’s not a good look, and not one I plan on emulating. Unless you start being honest with me, I’m going back to reading my book. The throng of female admirers I told you about will be here in a while. I want them all to myself. So buzz off. Hurry along now. Go. Scat! Vamoose!”

  I stood up so abruptly that the chair toppled over. It hit the floor with a loud bang. I didn’t pick it up.

  “It was a mistake to come here,” I said. I turned my back to Truman and stalked toward the door. Screw this clown, I thought. I’ll figure out some other way to find Antonio. Truman isn’t the only private detective in the city.

  “Hey Theodore!” Truman called out to me right before I opened the door.

  I turned my head.

  The gun that had been in Truman’s drawer was now in his right hand, pointing at me. Looking down the big barrel of the high caliber gun felt like looking down the muzzle of a cannon.

  Truman fired.

  CHAPTER 11

  The blast of the gun was deafening. The bullet had barely cleared the gun’s barrel before I drained it of its kinetic energy with my powers. It froze in the air just a foot or so from the muzzle. Despite my exhaustion, I hadn’t been so stupid as to not keep monitoring Truman and the gun with my powers even though I had turned my back to him.

  I spun to face Truman. With a small finger flick, I ripped the gun out of his hand. I twisted the gun around in the air to point its muzzle at Truman’s head. Turnabout was fair play. I’d find out how Truman liked having a gun pointed at him.

  Before the gun was in place in front of Truman, some of the water in the big bowl on Truman’s desk exploded out of the glass. As quick as a wink, it surrounded the gun. There were loud cracking and popping sounds as the liquid transformed into solid ice almost instantaneously. The ice-encased gun fell onto Truman’s desk with a loud thump.

  I tried to break the gun free of the ice. Shockingly, I couldn’t. My attempt was met with implacabl
e resistance. It should have been as easy as snapping a dry twig in two.

  I had known that Truman’s Metahuman power was hydrokinesis, or the ability to manipulate water. Reading about it in newspaper accounts and seeing it in action were two different kettles of fish, though.

  I looked up from the gun, ready to defend myself. Truman did not look like he was about to attack me again. He still sat behind his desk. He clenched and unclenched his gun hand as though I had hurt it when I had disarmed him. He looked smug, like a man who was watching a movie unfold the way he expected it to. He grinned at me.

  His smug grin was my first clue. My second clue was the floating bullet. Thanks to all my Heroic training over the years, I was good at judging angles and trajectories. Now that I had a moment to focus on the path the bullet would have taken had I not stopped it, I realized it would not have hit me. It would have sailed well over me and would hit the wall near the ceiling.

  I realized it had not been a bad shot. Truman had not been trying to hit me at all. He somehow suspected I was a Metahuman, and had been trying to get me to expose that fact by shooting at me. Like an idiot, I had fallen for it. The first rule of being a secret superhuman was to not expose the fact you were a secret superhuman. Truman was not the clown I had originally taken him for.

  Truman’s smile faded as he winced and shook his right hand a little. He said, “You could’ve been a little gentler in disarming me.”

  “And you could’ve not shot at me,” I said.

  “A good point.”

  “What gave me away?” My heart pounded. Even though I now knew I was not in danger, it was hard to be blasé about a gun being fired anywhere in your direction.

  Truman’s smile returned, as if I had passed some sort of test by realizing what he had done. “A couple of things. The way you checked out the room before you came in, like you were looking for potential threats. I do something similar. Also, the way you move. There’s a certain amount of grace and confidence that goes with being a trained fighter. You’ve got it. And, though you said you knew I’m a Hero, the fact didn’t seem to intimidate you at all. A normal person tends to be nervous around people with superpowers. You weren’t. It all pointed to the idea that you are a Metahuman. And not just Metahuman, but a trained Metahuman. Game recognizes game, as the kids might say. This,” he said, pointing to the still hovering bullet, “just confirmed my suspicions.”