by Matt Cowper
“Sounds good,” she said. “We’ll be ready whenever you are.”
She exited the office, and I turned to Woodruff, finally able to look at him scornfully, as he deserved.
“What, did that interview stick in your craw?” I said. “This is a pretty quick response.”
“When it comes to the press, I always act quickly,” Woodruff said. He brushed an invisible particle off his suit sleeve. “That was quite ingenious, that interview. Your idea?”
“For the most part,” I said. “Julia added a few touches here and there.”
“I didn’t think she had it in her,” he said. “My mistake.” He looked out my window, grimaced at the view, which surely wasn’t up to his lofty standards, then turned back to me. “KOOW isn’t a very big station, you know – and yet the video of that interview is trending everywhere. Did you perhaps give it a little nudge?”
“Perhaps.”
He wagged a finger at me playfully. “Burt – you know Burt Harrison, the gentleman you hoodwinked in order to get onto Ironrock Island? – is always telling me I underestimate people. I won’t underestimate you anymore, though.”
That dancing finger and that doltish smile seemed to mean he was joking, but I knew better.
“I’m tired of your greasiness already,” I said. “Tell me what your angle is, so I can either blast you or outsmart you again.”
“I hope you choose the former option,” Dak rumbled. “His false smile and his absurdly well-trimmed hair rankles me.”
“My angle is this: you’ve given me a tremendous opportunity. The positive press I’ll accrue from this will last for months. This is much better than throwing a weak, crying widow in jail. I admit, I should have orchestrated this myself, but, as I said, I wasn’t aware Mrs. Anderson and yourself were this…sophisticated.” He took two elegant steps towards me; it felt like an aristocrat was approaching to grant me some land and a title. “And I meant what I said – my office will assist you in any way we can.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, it is so.”
“Alright,” I said, crossing my arms. “I want to see Homer Bollinger again.”
“Done,” Woodruff said. “Give me a date and a time, and I’ll set it up.”
“How about now, right after this schmoozing thing we’re gonna do outside?”
“Done,” Woodruff repeated. He pulled out his smartphone – on the back, there was a photo of him smiling like he loved everything in existence, even the bacteria and fungi – tapped on it for a few seconds, and then returned it to his pants pocket. “Will you be needing a lift? I’d be happy to let you ride along in my SUV, and I have a private boat that can deliver us to the island. Or if those modes of transportation offend your Bootheel sensibilities, you can ride on the ferry. It’s your choice.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’m not stepping foot on Ironrock Island again. You’ll arrest me on some pretense and toss me in a cell. Move Homer to your mainland office, and I’ll meet with him in one of your low-security interview rooms.”
“But Mr. Wagner, our mainland office is far less secure than—”
“That’s the point,” I said. “Aren’t you listening? Move Homer, and I’ll meet with him. Oh, and our conversation will not be recorded. Otherwise, nothing doing.”
“Do you really think I would entrap you, after all the shining press you’ve created for me?” Woodruff said. His astonishment seemed genuine, but of course I couldn’t tell for sure. “That would be political suicide. No, Mr. Wagner, there won’t be any traps – for now, at least.”
“I do not trust you, you unctuous buffoon,” Dak rumbled. “John Wagner, let us put him in a coffin and be done with it.”
“No one trusts him,” I said, “but killing him isn’t the answer – though I’m still sorely tempted.”
“Oh, you wound me,” Woodruff said, clutching at his heart.
“Will you bring Homer to the mainland or not?” I snapped.
Woodruff drummed his fingers on his thighs for a half-minute. “Agreed.” He pulled out his phone again and tapped on it for a few seconds. “He’ll be transferred while we’re having this photo-op, and he’ll be ready to meet with you as soon as you can get to our headquarters.”
“Good,” I said. I really didn’t think it was a good idea to swagger into DSC headquarters, but I’d chance it. If worse came to worse, I could escape far easier than if I was on Ironrock Island. “Next up: this cover-up I’ve been hearing about. I’ve talked to some people in the know, and they say Captain Neptune was protected by someone with a lot of clout – you, maybe?”
“When you say you ‘talked to’ people, do you mean you tortured them?”
I bristled, but decided not to argue with him – I just might lose, depending on how much he knew about my interrogations. “Don’t change the subject. Did you protect Neptune?”
“No, of course not,” Woodruff said. “Why would I?”
“I can think of several reasons,” I said. “Maybe you didn’t want the world to know one of your heroes was a fraud. Maybe you were blackmailing him. Maybe you were taking a cut of the smuggling money. Maybe it just amused you to watch a hero self-destruct.”
Woodruff sighed and held out his hands, palms up, like he was bearing a token of peace. “I promise you, I knew nothing about Captain Neptune’s crimes, or his philandering, until days after his death.”
I wondered how many times he said “I promise you” per day, and if he meant those words more than one percent of the time.
“Then how did you learn about what he’d done?” I asked.
“I told you this once before: we investigated.”
“Again with the idiotic secrecy, huh? That’s not good enough, Woodruff.”
“It will have to be,” Woodruff said. “After our investigation, I chose not to act on this information – no sense desecrating the name of a man who, for all the public knew, was altruistic, brave, and noble. Then, of course, you came along, with your short-sighted muckraking.”
“I’m doing what I was hired to do,” I said. “If you had just cooperated with me, this whole thing would have gone so much smoother.” I smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t you think so, buddy?”
Woodruff looked down at his shoulder as if I’d irradiated his suit. Then he rearranged his face, and the infamous smile returned. “Unfortunately, that’s not how this all works. I am the arbiter of truth and justice in this city, not some destitute private eye.” He put his hands on his hips and straightened his already straight posture; it looked like he was addressing a bothersome jury. “You’ve created a situation where it would be disadvantageous to attack you directly, but rest assured, this isn’t over, Mr. Wagner. I am a patient man.”
“You’re going to wait until interest in Julia Anderson and Captain Neptune wanes,” I said, “so you can get revenge on us without anyone complaining. Isn’t that your little plan?”
“Well…yes. Isn’t that obvious?”
“You’re a worthless piece of shit, Woodruff.”
“And you’re a little man with little ideas,” Woodruff said. It came out so smoothly, it almost sounded like a compliment. “You use words like ‘corruption’ and ‘bribery’ and and so on like they mean something. They don’t. All that matters is that the gears keep turning. That’s where I come in; I’m an excellent gear-turner.”
He adjusted his tie, which made it slightly more perfect. “Why do you think I’m able to retain my position? Why doesn’t some superhero expose my so-called questionable actions? Because the people who really pull the strings know I keep this city from ripping itself apart. Can you imagine if some reformer became chief prosecutor?” He said the word “reformer” like it was a racial epithet. “Superheroes would be arrested for flicking someone with a pinkie, while supervillains would be treated like wayward children instead of the dangerous super-felons they are. Z City would bleed if that happened, Mr. Wagner – it would bleed out its life-blood.”
“That
does not sound bad at all,” Dak rumbled. “We should kill this man forthwith, so that a reformer will take his place.”
“Nah, Dak,” I said. “He’s just playing mind games. I guess he thinks his little speech is going to make me see him in a whole new light.” I stepped closer to Woodruff and jabbed my God Finger into his chest. “I repeat: you’re a piece of shit, Woodruff. I don’t care about gears turning or misguided reformers or any of the hoopla you recite to yourself to justify your actions. We’re enemies – period. If you try to screw me or Julia Anderson again, I’ll one-up you again – and again – and again, until you finally understand you’re not going to beat me – ever.”
“If you say so, Mr. Wagner,” Woodruff said sunnily. “But enough of this jousting. Let’s head outside, and give the good people of the press what they want.”
He turned on his heel, and I had little choice except to follow him. His goons fell in behind us, and we all marched downstairs and out onto to the sidewalk, where Amber and a cameraman were waiting by the gaudy KOOW van.
“Ready?” she said, walking over to us.
“Yes, we are,” Woodruff said. “Now, I’m not telling you how to do your job, Mrs. Wachowski, but I think after we each say a few words, a handshake between Mr. Wagner and I right by this wall would be wonderful. I think it’s best for me to turn to the camera so the left side of my face is shown – people tell me that’s my best side.”
“Well…if that’s what you want,” Amber said, “but let me just say, I think both sides of your face are fine.”
“Oh, you charmer!” Woodruff gushed. “Look, you’re making me blush!”
Sure enough, his face was beet red. Could he blush at will, in addition to all his other tricks?
Amber smiled a girlish smile – she was no longer the professional reporter, but the stricken schoolgirl.
“I don’t know why you’re blushing,” Amber said. “You get compliments from the ladies all the time, I’m sure. I would think you’d be used to it.”
“Can we hurry this up?” I said. “I’ve got things to do.”
Amber’s glare told me in clear terms that she’d like to rip out my intestines and choke me with them.
“OK, I’ll give an overview, and then I’ll get some comments from each of you,” she said. “Then we can have the handshake.”
“That sounds splendid,” Woodruff said suavely.
Amber smiled at him again and motioned to the cameraman, who settled his camera on his shoulder and started shooting. She morphed back into professional reporter: she clutched her microphone like it was a part of her, and informed the viewers who would soon be watching this clip what was occurring on this mangy street in Bootheel.
“This is Amber Wachowski, reporting from Bootheel, where an extraordinary meeting has just taken place. The Division of Superhuman Crime’s chief prosecutor, Damien Woodruff, met with John Wagner, a local private investigator, to discuss how the DSC can assist Mr. Wagner in the Captain Neptune murder investigation, an investigation that now appears to be much more complex than previously thought. Viewers will recall the bombshells Julia Anderson, wife of the slain hero, revealed to KOOW, in an unparalleled show of bravery and integrity.”
Amber moved a few steps to Woodruff, and gently put the microphone in front of him.
“Mr. Woodruff, you’ve said you will assist Mr. Wagner in any way possible,” she said. “What does that mean exactly?”
“It means exactly that, Amber,” Woodruff said, as noble as a storybook prince. “We will do anything and everything to help Mr. Wagner with his case. This is the only course of action a respectable and honest person would take.” He turned to me. “And, I must say that I applaud Mr. Wagner’s determination, intelligence, and skill. We need more hard-working private investigators like him in Z City. We need more able citizens to step up and say, ‘I want the truth, and nothing will stop me from getting it.’”
“Dak, keep cool,” I thought-spoke. “I know you want to melt his skin from his face – and trust me, I’m about to strangle him myself – but we just have to play our assigned role right now.”
“I do not like it,” Dak rumbled. “You should have chosen a different path, instead of helping orchestrate this deception. This is Damien Woodruff’s realm, not ours.”
“I did what I had to do,” I said. “Trust me, if the DSC is really behind us, at least officially, we have more leeway to destroy stuff.”
“I will believe it when I see it.”
Amber moved to me, and shoved the microphone into my face, nearly bumping my nose.
“Mr. Wagner, what do you think about receiving assistance from the DSC, and what’s your opinion on Mr. Woodruff’s flattering comments about yourself and the private investigator profession?”
I cleared my throat. “Damien Woodruff has been nothing but helpful to myself and Mrs. Anderson. The residents of Z City are fortunate they have such a tenacious and, um, caring man heading the DSC.” I paused, but I was pretty sure it was nowhere near one of Woodruff’s perfect pauses. “As for his…flattering comments, I certainly appreciate them, and I hope private investigators everywhere will take note: if we work together with the authorities, we can…we can achieve miracles.”
“I cannot believe you just said that,” Dak rumbled.
“Neither can I.”
Amber turned back to the camera. “With the resources of the DSC melding with the pluck of an everyday private eye, the truth of this Captain Neptune controversy will surely be rapidly revealed. I’m Amber Wachowski, for KOOW News.”
Woodruff stuck out his hand, and I shook it, turning to the camera. His handshake was firm, but not overbearing; he’d probably computed the exact pressure one needed to apply for a perfect handshake.
“After we extricate ourselves from this frippery,” Dak rumbled, “we are going to find something to destroy.”
“For once,” I replied, “I’m not gonna hold you back.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
I thought the Division of Superhuman Crime’s mainland headquarters would be less intimidating than Ironrock Island, but I was already sweating and shaking, and I’d only just stepped into the palatial lobby. Maybe I was just tired; battling numerous superhumans, outmaneuvering cops and officials, and trying to keep up with a wild assassin certainly drained a man.
“Bravo, Johnny,” Burt said, walking over to me from the marble receptionist’s desk. “And I say that sincerely. You’ve put on a helluva show these past few days.”
“Thanks, Burt,” I said. “Coming from you, that’s like winning an Oscar.”
“Don’t get too cocky, though. Woodruff’s hands are tied now, but he’ll get you eventually, even if it takes years.”
“I’m more concerned with the present day,” I said. “Is this meeting with Homer Bollinger legit, or is Woodruff gonna slap some nullifier manacles on my hands and lock me up?”
“He doesn’t have any tricks planned, as far as I know,” Burt said. “You’re a distinguished guest of the DSC. Here, he even had an ID card made for you.”
Burt pulled a piece of plastic out of his pocket and handed it to me. Sure enough, it had my name, a photo, and “Distinguished Guest” in large green letters under “Type of Visitor.”
“Such a warm welcome,” I said. “I’m honored.”
“You should be – literally, you should be,” Burt said. “You and the DSC, working together solve a terrible crime – that’s the ruse you set into motion, ain’t it? If you make fun of any of this pomp and circumstance, you’ll ruin everything.” He glanced over at my God Arm. “And keep Dak under control, just like on Ironrock Island.”
“I am content for the moment, Burt Harrison,” Dak rumbled. “We destroyed several walls in an abandoned building, ripped several rats to pieces with savage shadow-cats, and killed several pigeons with a bolt of lightning before coming here.”
“Sounds like you ate well from the destruction buffet,” Burt said.
“He had to gorge hi
mself after that glad-handing with Woodruff,” I said. “So, how’s Homer? Has he said anything about this case since I spoke to him?”
“Not really,” Burt replied. “We talked to him, but he just repeated his story. He’s eager to see you, though. He knows what you’ve been up to, somehow. I guess some of the prisoners have eyes and ears on the outside, and they’ve kept him updated.”
“Yeah, from what I’ve heard, information moves fairly freely between Ironrock Island and the mainland.”
“I thought we kept things pretty tight,” Burt said, “but I guess it’s not tight enough.”
We approached two guards standing by two large glass doors. They looked the same as the rock-like guards I’d seen on Ironrock Island. Above the doors, “WING B: OFFICES AND INTERVIEW ROOMS – PERSONNEL AND OFFICIAL GUESTS ONLY” was pristinely engraved into the granite wall.
“Hello, sir,” the guard on the left said.
“Enjoy your visit, sir,” the other one said.
“Uh…thanks,” I said.
The guards opened the doors for us, and we headed down a wide corridor, bare except for various plants sitting in large stone urns.
“I’m a sir now?” I said.
Burt smirked. “Like I said: distinguished guest.”
We went through two more glass doors at the end of the corridor – I again received two “sirs” from the two guards flanking the entrance – and entered Wing B. It was exactly like the wing I’d seen on Ironrock Island: spacious, spotless, luxuriant, and smelling clean and joyful.
As soon as the doors clicked shut behind us, a young woman with significant cleavage practically skipped over and shoved a giant fruit basket into my arms.
“On behalf of Damien Woodruff,” the woman chirped, “I’d like you to accept this gift. It has twenty delicious fruits from all over the world, all of them farmed sustainably and in accordance with international fair wage standards.”
“This is too much,” I said, staring at the lush items arranged perfectly in the undoubtedly hand-woven basket.
“No, it is not too much,” Burt said, nudging me, but doing it in such a way it looked like an accidental bump. “Nothing is too much for a distinguished guest of the DSC.”
