Superhero Detective Series (Book 4): Hunted

by Brasher, Darius

  “Eventually Byron becoming Avatar would kill him. If Byron never transformed into Avatar, as far as Byron knew, he would be immortal. More than once I pleaded with Byron to stop being Avatar. His response was always the same. ‘The world needs me,’ he would say. He was so selfless. He was better than the world deserved.” Her eyes welled up with tears again. “Better than I deserved.”

  I waited for the fresh tears to run their course. I wanted a scotch. I wanted to hold Donna and comfort her. To actually do so felt wrong. I wished Ginny were here. For one thing, women were better at comforting other women without coming off as being creepy as men sometimes did. For another, witnessing Donna process the loss of a loved one made me want to have my loved one close by. Would Ginny one day be crying, having a similar conversation with someone about me? The Hero business was a dangerous one. Not too many of us lived to a ripe old age.

  “Do you know what Avatar knew about Lobb’s criminal activities?” I asked. I wanted to leave Donna alone with her grief, but I had a job to do.

  “Plenty,” she said, “thanks to me. Even before Avatar showed up at our office, I started to become aware that Richard was not simply the head of a technology company. Though my title is executive secretary, I do far more than typing letters and taking dictation. I have a MBA from Harvard and a Yale undergraduate degree in finance. I’m more of a chief operating officer for UWant than a secretary in the traditional Mad Men sense. Almost everything Richard sees goes through me first. Years ago shortly after I started working for Richard I grew suspicious enough about some of the numbers I was seeing and where the company’s money was going that I started to do a little digging. It soon became clear that Richard had his fingers in the pie of every major criminal enterprise in the city, and that he was slowly spreading his influence through the rest of the state and country. Drugs, prostitution, gun running, domestic terrorists, criminal Metahumans, murders for hire, the list of things Richard was involved in went on and on. I don’t think he was interested in making money from his criminal activities so much as he wanted to have his fingers in every pie, both and illegal, so he could always make sure he knew what was going on so he could manipulate events to suit his purposes. ‘Knowledge is power,” he has said to me time and time again. ‘And I want plenty of both.’”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “I was scared. Richard is not the sort of man you want to cross. I suspect he had a few of his business rivals and some of the people who screwed him over the years killed. There was never any evidence leading back to him, of course. But, when someone opposes Richard or gets in his way, bad things tend to happen to that person. Getting beaten to death in a robbery gone bad, getting killed in a hit and run accident, mysteriously disappearing, that sort of thing.” I remembered how Brass had told me The Spider would call on him from time to time and have Brass’ men do certain tasks for him. What if Spider had a network of criminals and criminal Metas who were beholden to him? From what Donna was saying, it sounded like he did.

  “I did not want to be added to the list of casualties,” Donna was saying, jarring me out of my reverie. “Also, I did not have conclusive proof, just hints and tiny pieces of the puzzle.” She shook her head ruefully. “Plus, and I’m ashamed to admit this, but working for Richard has made me rich. It’s much easier to convince yourself to not do the right thing when the wrong thing is what is padding your bank account. But when Avatar and I became involved, I started sharing the things I knew with him. I not only told him things, but I also shared with him some of the documents that crossed my path that pointed towards Richard’s illicit activities. He was using the stuff I gave him to build a case against Richard.” Donna’s eyes suddenly got wide. “Do you suppose that was why Byron was killed? Because of the information I was feeding him?”

  “I don’t know.” I thought of the anti-Metahuman diatribe Lobb had gone on when I was in his office. Maybe Lobb killed Avatar or had him killed not only because he was a symbol for Metahumans, but also because Avatar was close to exposing Lobb as a criminal mastermind. “I’m going to do my best to find out. Do you know if Avatar shared his suspicions about Lobb with his Sentinel teammates?”

  Donna shook her head.

  “No. Byron told me he suspected one of his teammates got payoffs from Richard, so he didn’t want to share the info he had about Richard with the Sentinels until he had rock solid proof. Byron wouldn’t tell me who he suspected was getting money from Richard.” Donna shook her head again. “That was just like Byron. He was such a good person, he did not want to slander the good name of someone, even to me, unless he was sure of it.” A Sentinel was being bribed by Lobb? First Lady Justice, now this. Were all of my childhood heroes corrupt?

  Donna leaned forward.

  “I might be able to help you find out why Byron was killed and prove how Richard is involved,” she said. “Richard keeps a large safe in his office, on the other side of the room from where his desk is. It’s mounted in the wall, hidden behind a large painting. He is the only one with a combination. Richard is obsessive about keeping records. I’m sure if there’s anything incriminating, he keeps it there. Richard was always very careful to not let me see what was inside of it. Maybe he even keeps the technology he used to kill Avatar there.”

  “Did you tell Avatar about this safe?”

  “Yes, but he told me he could not just go into the office and break into the safe to see what was there. He was a Hero sworn to uphold the law. He said if he was ever to get in there, he would need to do it legally. That was why he was trying to build a case again Richard so he could go to the cops about him. Once there was enough of a case, the police could get a warrant and Richard’s safe could be opened and the contents used against him legally.”

  “I can’t break into that safe either,” I said, “any more than Avatar could. And for the same reasons. I’m supposed to uphold the law too. If I didn’t follow the law, broke into the safe, and I did find something incriminating in it, the evidence would not be usable by the authorities as I would have gotten my hands on it illegally.” I shook my head. “Plus, I’ve been barred from the building. I would have to fight my way through Lobb’s Metahuman security force to even get to the safe, and there’s no guarantee that there would be anything there.”

  “We have to do something,” Donna said firmly, frowning. She slapped her hand down on the tabletop angrily. “We can’t let Richard get away with this.”

  “We won’t. I’ll think of something.” Right at that moment, though, my idea well was dry.

  I looked down at my glass of sparkling water. It was probably the water’s fault. I had never read a detective novel where the hero solved a case over a glass of sparkling water. In vino veritas—in wine, there was truth. There were no cool Latin expressions involving sparkling water. Those wise ancient Romans knew what was up.

  CHAPTER 24

  I pulled into the parking garage of my condo complex in the late afternoon, three days after my conversation with Donna. I was exhausted. I had spent the past few days chasing my tail searching for a way to connect Lobb to Avatar’s death, to the break-in at Chaos’ cell at MetaHold, or to anything that involved any kind of criminality whatsoever. I accomplished exactly the same amount dogs did when they chased their tails—I was worn out, but I had not gotten anywhere. Other than Lobb having gotten a speeding ticket five years ago, he appeared as clean as a hound’s tooth. I knew that was not the case. I knew he was a dirty dog who used criminals to advance his quest for power and his anti-Metahuman agenda. Despite the fact I had not yet figured out a way to bring Lobb to heel, I not about to give up. I would not just let sleeping dogs lie.

  What is it with me and all these dog analogies? I thought as I pulled my keys out of the ignition. I guessed I was making them because I was so dog-tired.

  Despite the fact I was tired, I mustered the energy to climb the short flight of stairs from the parking garage to the first floor of my condo building. I was a Hero, and th
erefore tough. I would not be balked by a flight of stairs. I walked from the stairwell to the reception desk. Salvador, one of the three rotating attendants, was on duty today. He wore his usual outfit consisting of a red shirt and black pants.

  “How ya doing Salvador?” I asked as I walked past, slowing a bit. “Your mother feeling better?” He had told me days before she was ill.

  “What?” he said, seemingly startled by the question. “Oh, yeah, she’s just fine.” Salvador was nervous. His darting eyes would not meet mine. He ran a hand across his slicked-back thick black hair. I paused.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  “Oh sure, Mr. Lord. Sure. You have a good afternoon.” It was a dismissal. Normally I had a hard time getting Salvador to stop talking. And he rarely called me Mr. Lord as I had told him when we first me to call me by my first name. I hesitated in front of Salvador’s desk, tempted to inquire further as to what the matter was. I decided against it. I was tired, and had more pressing mysteries to solve. I shot Salvador with my thumb and forefinger. I walked to the elevator instead of to the stairs. Yes, I was a tough Hero who could normally not be balked by eight flights of stairs. But I was tired. There was such a thing as too much of a good thing, even toughness.

  Before I stepped into the elevator, I noticed Salvador was on the phone. Maybe he had acted so strangely because he had met a new hot woman, and was anxious to get back to her. Before Ginny entered my life, I might have turned around to ask Salvador if his lady friend had an attractive sister with loose morals, bad judgment, and a love for broken noses.

  I took the elevator to my floor, the eighth one. I was about to put my key in my front door when I stopped myself. Something was wrong. I was so tired, it took me a few seconds to realize what it was. I always plucked a hair from my arm and placed it between the door and the doorjamb when I left so I would have additional insurance no one entered my condo without me knowing about it. I also always automatically checked for the hair when I reentered my condo. The hair was gone. Maybe I was overlooking it. It being hard to spot was the point of having it there to begin with. I put my face closer to the door and looked even more carefully. No, it was most definitely not there.

  Had I forgotten to place it when I had left my condo earlier in the day? That was not likely. Me leaving a hair in the door was an ingrained habit due to having done it for years. Besides, now that I thought about it, I specifically remembered putting the hair in the door when I had left this morning.

  Maybe the cleaning lady had disturbed the hair when she had gone into my place. Maybe my son Billy had disturbed the hair when he had left to join his friends at the corner comic book shop. The problem was I did not have a cleaning lady nor a son named Billy. What I did have was plenty of people who were eager to do me harm.

  My heart started beating faster. I drew my pistol with my right hand, making sure the safety was off. Fortunately, that hand had sufficiently healed so it did not need a bandage anymore. I stretched out my water awareness. I did a sweep of the entire condo. If anyone was inside, they either had no water signature or it was somehow masked. I did a quick inspection of my two keyholes. There were no unusual scrapes or scratches. If they had been tampered with, it had been done expertly.

  Using my left hand and with my gun at the ready in the right, I unlocked both locks. I tried to be as quiet as a mouse and, as a result, the tumblers seemed insanely loud. I turned the doorknob. It did not explode in my hand, nor did a hail of bullets come bursting from the other side of the door. A promising start. I opened the door a crack. I peered through the crack at the alarm system panel. I had had the foresight to make sure it was installed where it could be seen through a crack in the door. All its panels glowed green. Emboldened, I opened the door wider. Nothing happened. I could not see anyone inside nor anything that did not belong there. I was tempted to shout “Is anyone home?” but people who were lying in wait were rarely polite enough to announce their presence. Rude bastards. “Come out, come out wherever you are” would probably not work either.

  I stepped inside. I closed the door. I deactivated the alarm before it started blaring. Moving as quietly as I could, I search the place from room to room, my gun still at the ready. I finished the search in the kitchen. I found nothing and no one. Everything was as I had left it when I had gone earlier. I holstered my gun before I accidentally shot myself. It happened more than one would think, though not to me so far. I did not want to break the unbroken string of not shooting myself by jumping at a shadow and putting a bullet into my foot. Embarrassing. Well, my not-shooting-myself string was unbroken unless one counted when my bullet struck Brass Knuckle’s fists and ricocheted to hit my ear.

  My palms were sweaty. I wiped them on my pants. I let out a long breath. My alarm system and my search both told me all was well. But, something felt off. I could not quite put my finger on why. A subtle smell in the air, maybe? Was my subconscious mind picking up on an object that had been moved ever so slightly? When my gut told me something, I tried to listen to it. Perhaps alarm systems should be treated the way people you were not too familiar with should be: Trust, but verify.

  I again searched my place. This time I did it more thoroughly, as if I were in a stranger’s house and I was looking for something. It brought to mind the thorough search I had done of Byron Hennings’ place. At least this time I did not have to wear gloves.

  I was going through my bedroom closet when I found something. It was in my clothes hamper, in the middle of the pile of dirty clothes. It was a gun, but not like any kind of gun I had seen before. It was pitch black. The barrel was long, like one of those trick guns where a flag reading “Bang!” levers out of the barrel when you press the trigger. A large cylinder about the size and length of an oversized test tube was embedded into the barrel of the gun. It had a diameter larger than the rest of the barrel.

  Without thinking, I picked the gun up by its grip. When I did so, the gun grew warm to the touch. It turned from black to silver, except for the larger cylinder sunk into the barrel. That part of the gun became transparent. What looked like a thick orange liquid with black splotches of various shapes and sizes floating in it swam inside the cylinder. A bullet fired from the gun would have to pass through that orange and black substance before being propelled through the rest of the barrel and out of the gun.

  I nearly dropped the gun when I suddenly realized what I was holding. The orange and black substance looked like Chaos energy, just like I had seen at MetaHold and what Kierra Singleton had described Antaeus draining away into a device. Was this the gun that had shot Avatar? And what in the hell was it doing in my place? Who had put it here? For what reason?

  Those thoughts were buzzing in my brain when another thought suddenly demanded my immediate attention. My water awareness alerted me to a large number of people approaching my unit from all sides. I dropped the gun on top of the pile of clothes. I raced to my alarm panel, next to which was a small screen displaying footage from the hallway outside my unit. From each side of the hallway outside my door, a large contingent of men with short assault rifles at the ready and wearing red and black riot gear from head to toe were approaching. SMART was stenciled on their armor in big white letters. I recognized the armor. It was worn by members of the Astor City Special Metahuman Attack and Retrieval Team, or SMART. SMART was the city’s elite police unit trained to deal with Metahumans and bring them into police custody. Or, if the Metas were sufficiently dangerous, to kill them.

  My mind kicked into overdrive. Someone had come into my place and planted a gun. Presumably that gun had been used to kill Avatar. Now a bunch of cops trained to deal with Metahumans were approaching my door. I did not think they were coming to sell me Girl Scout cookies. They were coming because someone must have convinced them I had something to do with Avatar’s death. I remembered how Salvador had acted strangely when he saw me, and how he was on the phone as I entered the elevator. Tipping the cops off that I was home, perhaps.

  The que
stion was what to do now. Should I open the door, hand over the gun in my clothes hamper, and calmly explain to the cops someone had planted it there? And tell them whoever planted it was acting on the orders of Richard Lobb, one of the richest, most famous, and well-respected businessmen in the world? Oh, and by the way, Lobb also happened to be a secret master criminal who went by The Spider. And, whoever had planted the gun had done so without tripping my alarm system or leaving any other discernible evidence. Oh, did I mention my prints are on the gun, officers? “Funny story about how my prints got on the gun,” I might say to them. “I, an experience detective, thought it might be a good idea to pick up with my bare hands a potential murder weapon I discovered in my house. You should chalk the existence of my prints up to stupidity, not guilt.” Yeah right. The cops would not believe that story. I scarcely believed it myself. I started to curse my stupidity for picking up the gun, then stopped myself. There was no point in crying over spilt milk after the horse had already been stolen. Or something like that. I was stressed.

  No, I could not give myself up and expect to be believed. Besides, who knew what other kinds of trumped-up evidence had been planted or manufactured? Avatar’s death might be pinned on me, and it might stick. If there was one thing I had learned, it was that The Spider’s web was woven all throughout the city. No. Though giving myself up was the right thing to do from a legal standpoint, it was not the right thing to do from the standpoint of bringing the true killer to justice.