I dug out my color-coded binder, along with a flash drive. The five-inch-thick book and drive contained all of the information I’d ever collected on superheroes and ubervillains. I flipped to the book’s sections on the Fearless Five and the Terrible Triad. I’d spent so much time investigating the two groups that most of the information was permanently ingrained in my brain. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to get a refresher on their powers, costume colors, and hobbies. You never knew what small bit of information would be the key to solving the big mystery.
Fearless Five: Members are Striker, Fiera, Mr. Sage, Hermit, and Tornado.
Striker: Male. Wears black leather suit with gray accents. Special abilities include above-average strength, unbelievable reflexes and agility, and the power to regenerate, or heal wounds rapidly. Uses two swords that return to his hand when called back.
Fiera: Female. Wears reddish-orange catsuit. Outfit and general body type are remarkably similar to Malefica’s (see below). Special abilities include creating, controlling, and manipulating fire. Also has incredible strength.
Mr. Sage: Male. Wears green-and-white outfit. Special abilities include telekinesis, or the ability to move objects with his mind, and some psychic abilities, such as telepathy and premonition.
Hermit: Gender unknown. Costume unknown. Never or very rarely participates in battle. Seems mostly to provide technical support. Not known if he/she has superpowers.
Tornado: Male. Wears silver outfit. Special abilities include creating, controlling, and manipulating air and wind.
Underneath a variety of other information about Tornado, I’d written my last entry six months ago—TORNADO IS TRAVIS TEAGUE. GOTCHA!
I wrestled with my guilt over Tornado’s death. It was a black demon that would never let me be. My guilt was like karma; it always came back around. But I had a job to do, and no time for regrets. I pushed my troubled feelings aside, then moved on to the villains.
Terrible Triad: Members are Malefica, Frost, and Scorpion.
Malefica: Female. Wears skintight, red leather catsuit. Outfit seems more designed to accentuate her tiny waist and large chest rather than for practicality in battle (see Fiera above). Special abilities include telekinesis, which she uses to fly. Has psychic abilities as well, including a strong gift for premonition.
Frost: Male. Wears ice-blue outfit. Special abilities include creating, controlling, and manipulating ice. Rumored to be incredibly intelligent.
Scorpion: Male. Wears black leather. Special abilities include incredible strength, agility, and regeneration. Can poison victims by scratching them with his talon-like fingernails.
Once I’d brought myself up to speed, I put out feelers to my old contacts. I called and e-mailed everyone I’d ever gotten a hot, superhero-sighting tip from. I also set up a meeting with a less-than-upright citizen who had clued me in on criminal activity in the past. She might know of something that would interest Striker and the rest of the Fearless Five. Finally, I called Chief Newman and set up an appointment to look at mug shots. It was doubtful I would find my kidnappers in the thousands of photos at the station, but I had to try.
My life depended on it.
* * *
I slid into one of my many little black dresses, put on my nightly war paint, er, makeup, and headed downtown to the police station.
I threaded my way through the crowd of detectives eating candy bars and headed for the chief’s office. I spoke to the secretary, and a moment later, Chief Sean Newman stuck his head outside. Something like surprise flickered in his blue eyes. I hadn’t come around the station much since Tornado’s suicide, due to my own guilt and the way the detectives stared at me, as if they’d like to shoot me on the spot.
“Carmen, how nice to see you again,” the chief rumbled in his deep Irish brogue. “Come in, come in.”
I entered the chief’s office, which was as neat as always. Every paper, pen, and paper clip rested in its own little organized tray, waiting to be plucked up and used. Even the crystal paperweights and framed photos lined up in a tidy row.
I sat down in a chair in front of the chief’s gray metal desk and explained the events of the previous night, leaving out a few pertinent details, like Malefica’s job for me and Frost’s desire to turn me into an icicle. I couldn’t tell Chief Newman the truth, not with Malefica’s dire threats hanging over my head. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if he or Henry or anyone else got hurt because of me. My karma was bad enough already. I didn’t need to make it worse.
“Two men drugged you and tried to get you into a car, but you used your pepper spray and got away?” The chief stared at me, his face lined with worry.
“That’s right. I think they were just a couple of guys, drunk most likely, painting the town red, and upset over the whole Tornado incident. Still, I thought I’d take a look at the books.”
“I think you need to do more than that,” Chief Newman said. “I think you need a guard, Carmen, somebody to watch over you.”
“No!” I shouted.
The chief raised a bushy eyebrow at me.
I fumbled for a reason to refuse. “I wouldn’t be able to do my...job with somebody following me around. Besides, your detectives have much more important things to do than look after me. Murders, robberies, rapes, that sort of thing.”
“Well, I can’t make you accept protection,” the chief said. “Still, you need to be careful, Carmen. There are a lot of folks who are still upset over Travis Teague’s suicide. Who knows what some of them might do to you?”
Visions of giant vats of radioactive goo and horribly mutated animals flashed through my mind. If you only knew. The chief frowned, as if he could sense my dark thoughts.
“I’ll be fine,” I said in a too-bright voice. “I’ve got pepper spray and six months’ worth of self-defense classes under my belt. What more does a girl need?”
* * *
I spent the next hour flipping through book after book after book of mug shots. My two kidnappers were nowhere to be found. Frustrated, I slammed the last book shut, thanked the chief for his time, and headed out.
I opened the door to the station and immediately stepped back. A guy dressed in black tumbled inside. He slid across the tile floor and landed with a loud thump against the information desk. An old woman followed him in. She wore a flowered dress, support hose, sensible shoes, and a string of large pearls. She looked like your typical grandmother, except for the flowered, purple mask that covered her face and the cape-like flow to her white angora sweater. She held a diamond-topped walking stick in her right hand. A large handbag hung off her left arm. Ah, Granny Cane was in the house.
A cop stepped forward and helped the guy to his feet.
“Another mugger, Granny?” the cop asked, slapping some cuffs on the dazed man.
“Yep,” the superhero crowed. “Tried to take my purse down on Thirteenth Street. I showed him who was boss, though.” She smacked her walking stick against her left palm and launched into her story about how she had whacked the thief into submission.
I skirted around the three of them and headed outside. I didn’t give the seventy-something superhero a second glance. Granny Cane had been stopping would-be thieves from preying on the elderly for twenty years now. You’d think that Bigtime’s criminals would wise up and stop trying to rob an old woman wearing a purple mask. But no. Every other week, some scumbag tried to take Granny Cane’s purse and was soundly beaten with her walking stick for his trouble.
I scurried across town to attend the latest, greatest society function, this time a fashion show by designer-to-the-stars Fiona Fine. Fiona was a real rags-to-riches story, having burst upon the fashion scene as a penniless college student and clawed her way to the top. Unlike most designers, Fiona had managed to stay there, although I couldn’t see why.
She used all sorts of bold colors, canary yellows and blazing oranges and lime greens that made my head ache. Even worse, Fiona adorned said colors with feathers and faux furs and glittering rhines
tones. She would have been the perfect person to design costumes for Vegas showgirls. She had gaudy and over-the-top down pat. Not to mention the fact Fiona’s clothes only flattered supermodels and other women with perfectly skeletal bodies and amazingly full chests.
“Fiona! Fiona!” I shouted over the crush of people surrounding the designer. “How about a comment on your new collection?”
At the sound of my voice, Fiona turned. She was a perfectly tall woman with perfectly long, flowing blond hair and perfectly blue eyes. Fiona was so perfect she could have modeled her own clothes and looked fabulous, even if she designed potato sacks. Though she wore a dress that reminded me of an eggplant with ruffles, Fiona still looked, well, perfect.
“My collection is fabulous, as always.” Fiona’s blue eyes rolled over me. “Unlike your dress. Where did you get it, the Salvation Army?” she snickered.
My cheeks flamed. There was nothing wrong with my dress. I was always neat and clean, and I ironed all my clothes regularly. Hell, I even ironed my sheets on occasion.
So what if I wore a little black dress to every event? So what if I was more comfortable in jeans, sneakers, and a grungy T-shirt than anything else? I didn’t have thousands to burn on clothes the way the jet-set crowd did.
Anger bubbled up in my chest. In the last day, I’d been kidnapped, drugged, and threatened. Now, some spoiled, snotty, rich-bitch designer was taking potshots at my wardrobe and reminding me yet again that I didn’t belong among the glitz and glamour. I might have to write about these people, but I didn’t have to take their insults.
“No, not the Salvation Army.” I straightened my shoulders. “I got it at Oodles o’ Stuff downtown during the big clearance sale. It’s actually from your last collection, when you were going through your black, depressed phase. Remember that one? Pity you didn’t stay in it. It was so much classier than your typical crayon-colored creations.”
Fiona gasped. I stalked through the crowd, grabbed a glass of champagne, and gulped it down. Everyone stared at me, even Sam Sloane and his latest supermodel. I chugged down another glass of champagne.
Fiona shot me heated, why-don’t-you-drop-dead-bitch looks the rest of the night, but I didn’t care. I stayed another hour to show people I wouldn’t be insulted by the likes of Fiona Fine and went back to the office. Although I wanted to write a less-than-flattering story about Fiona, her enormous ego, and horrible clothes, I typed up a bland, harmless little bit of fluff. I had to concentrate all my energy on finding Striker. I didn’t have time to get into pissy catfights with Fiona Fine. The woman hated me. I didn’t really care why.
I turned in my story, waited for the short-but-sweet response from my editor, and packed up my things. Rapid typing caught my attention. Henry hunched over his keyboard. My inner voice whispered. A thought occurred to me, another way I might uncover Striker and Malefica’s identities. I stopped at his desk, which was a haphazard mess of papers and wires and odd, electronic devices.
“Henry, could you do me a favor?”
He peered at me through his glasses. The thick lenses made his dark eyes seem twice their natural size. “Sure, what’s up?”
“Could you get me a list of the fifty richest men and women in Bigtime, along with their major assets, stock holdings, and companies?” I asked. “I need it for something I’m working on.”
“Oh, sure. No problem. Something for the society section?”
“You might say that.”
I’d long suspected there were a few superheroes and ubervillains hiding among the high-society, rich-as-sin crowd I covered. After all, heroes and villains needed vast amounts of money to pay for their high-tech toys and construct their secret, state-of-the-art underground lairs. Following the money trail had led me to more than one hero and villain. But if someone was leading a double life on the Bigtime social scene, he or she hid it well. Everyone on the society circuit seemed about as deep and interesting as a champagne flute.
“Can you give it to me by tomorrow?” I could have compiled the information myself, but it would have taken hours of digging through databases and stock reports and the like at the library, precious hours I didn’t have. Plus, Henry was a real whiz at things like that. He could type a few buttons and find all the information I needed in a matter of minutes.
“Well, I have some other things I’m working on right now. I can get it to you by the end of the week, or the beginning of next,” Henry said.
I tapped my foot. I needed the list right now, or tomorrow at the very latest. I needed as much information as I could get as quickly as I could get it to uncover Striker’s identity. I didn’t have time to wait around. Unlike some people in Bigtime, I wasn’t a psychic or a miracle worker or even a mind reader. Not even close.
Still, it wasn’t Henry’s fault I was in this mess. I had nobody to blame but myself. I made my lips smile. “Thanks, Henry. This week or next will be fine. Take your time.”
* * *
I left the gleaming skyscraper that housed The Exposé behind, took a right, and started walking. I glanced at my watch. I’d have to hustle to make it to the meeting with my contact.
“Hey, hey, hot mama! Looking for some action?” a voice called out from a dark doorway.
It was the same male pig who harassed me every night. “Forget it, loser,” I growled. The guy so needed to get a life.
A few blocks later, I reached Paradise Park in the heart of downtown Bigtime. With a zoo, carousel, carnival rides, and concession stands galore, the park was one of the major attractions in the city. Thousands of people visited it each day, and the park never closed, not even on Christmas. Even now on a late September night, faint music and squeals of laughter rose up from the Ferris wheel and merry-go-round. The smell of hot popcorn and greasy funnel cakes permeated the cool air. I walked past the fun and games, making my way to a fountain in the far corner of the park. I sat down next to a pair of frolicking nymphs that spat water out of their mouths every few seconds.
Twenty minutes later, I checked my faux silver watch for the umpteenth time. It was nearing midnight. Lulu should have been here by now, but the only people I’d seen had been a few sweaty joggers and the occasional homeless person looking for a place to curl up for the night. I’d given one of the hobos twenty bucks and sent him on his way.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. My inner voice chirped. I didn’t have enhanced senses, but I knew someone was watching me. A small hum sounded above the bubbling water, confirming my suspicion.
“You’re late,” I said.
A woman in a wheelchair zoomed out of the shadows. She shrugged. “Traffic. Cars won’t stop for anybody these days. Some guy on Broadway almost mowed me down. Big mistake. I got his license plate number. Tomorrow, his credit will be toast.”
I turned to look at Lulu. She was a skinny girl about twenty-five with a pretty, heart-shaped face. Neon blue streaks gleamed in her short, spiky, black hair. She looked fairly harmless and innocent, but Lulu knew everybody who was anybody in Bigtime. Information was her game, and she played it very well. Lulu was one of the best computer whizzes and hackers in the business. She had her own little empire of information trading and corporate espionage that netted her millions, as evidenced by the elaborate, motorized wheelchair she sat in and the Bulluci fleece pullover jacket she wore that cost more than my first car.
I had met Lulu Lo while doing a story on Yee-haw!, a therapeutic riding center that helped paralyzed and injured kids and adults. At first, I’d thought that Lulu was just another one of the program’s clients. Then, I’d started digging around and discovered the center was financed almost entirely by her. Further investigation revealed Lulu’s extracurricular activities weren’t exactly legal. Despite the dubious nature of its financing, my story had focused on all the good the program did. Lulu had gotten some legitimate contributions from the article, and since then, we’d developed a tit-for-tat relationship. Lulu gave me the lowdown on what was happening around town, and
every couple of months, I did another glowing feature about the program’s latest success story.
“What can I do for you, Sister Carmen? You sounded rather frantic on the phone. Not like your usual cool self at all.”
Lulu always called me Sister Carmen. She had since the first day we’d met. I didn’t really know why. I’d asked her about it one time, and she’d mumbled something about us being in the ubervillain fight together. Like sisters. I didn’t understand what she meant, but I didn’t mind the odd nickname. After all, Lulu was the closest thing I had to a friend these days, besides Henry.
“I want information on Striker and the rest of the Fearless Five. Do you know anything? Are any of the gangs in town up to something that might catch their interest?”
Lula’s dark eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“Let’s just say I’m getting back in the game.” I liked Lulu, but I wasn’t about to tell her my troubles. You couldn’t trust anybody, not even your fiancé or best friend. A needle of pain pierced my heart. “Do you know anything?”
“There have been some rumors that the Five, or the Four these days, haven’t been too happy about the Southside crew that’s been smuggling drugs into the city. Word on the street is Striker is looking to take them out.”
Lulu pulled a small laptop computer out of a bag attached to her chair. She fired it up and began to type. Invoices and spreadsheets flashed across the screen faster than I could blink. At times like these, Lulu reminded me of a prettier, female version of Henry Harris. One with much better taste in clothes.
“Hmmm, looks like you’re in luck, Sister Carmen. The Southside crew has a shipment coming in tomorrow night. I’d lay even money on Striker and his friends being there. I’ll e-mail you the time and location.”
“Thanks, Lulu. I appreciate it.” I got to my feet.
The Bigtime Series (Bigtime superhero series, e-bundle) Page 5
