I took a deep breath.
“Would you mind going over everything again with me?” I asked. “I know the details must be painful, but—”
“You’re trying to solve Harris’s murder yourself.” Starla clapped her hands together, her face lighting up. “Of course you are. You’re a hero.”
“Yeah, well…”
“I’d be happy to help. You know I’d do anything for you, White Knight.”
She smiled coyly, her devastation over Harris’s death apparently forgotten.
“Thank you,” I said. “If you and Treasure are free for lunch…?”
“No. I’m sorry, we’re not. This whole ordeal has just been too much. I have to go home and rest. But how about dinner? I don’t think I have the strength to go out, but you’re welcome to come over to my place.”
My mind screamed “Abort!” and words rushed from my mouth.
“I don’t want to impose. You’re obviously shaken up from Harris’s death. Maybe we can postpone until tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’m not going out tomorrow. The crowds from Hero-Fest are just awful. And really, don’t worry about imposing. It’s no trouble at all.”
The festival would go on all weekend, and I couldn’t wait that long. She had me trapped.
I tried not to groan. “All right.”
“Fantastic!” she said. “How’s seven o’clock?”
“Fine, but I want to make it absolutely clear this is just business.”
“Of course. See you at seven.” She winked at me and then turned to her daughter. “Come on, Treasure—and for God’s sake, will you stand up straight and smile.”
Starla strode away, Treasure following with a tight smile and a despairing look in her eyes.
I watched them go with a sinking feeling. The evening was going to be a disaster; I could already tell. My only chance was to interrogate Mental and solve this mess before seven. Then I could call Starla and cancel. It was a slim hope, but I clung to it like a damsel-in-distress to a superhero.
I walked back to the parking garage, careful not to jostle anyone on the crowded sidewalk. I don’t like crowds. The last time I accidentally stepped on someone’s foot was over thirty years ago, but I broke fourteen of his bones and can still hear his scream to this day. And I know what some of you are thinking. Superheroes are always whining about how hard it is to have amazing, world-changing powers, but there’s truth to it, believe me. Take unbreakable skin, for instance. Great for fighting supervillains; not so much when you need knee surgery. After the initial frustration, I’d come to see the silver lining of my injury. There was something to be said for taking life slowly and appreciating the scenery, a peacefulness that came from not being in a race all the time. But not right now. Right now, I wished I had Harris’s speed.
Part of me wanted to turn around, storm back into the DSA building, and refuse to leave until they released Val. She was in there somewhere, drugged and under interrogation. I hated the thought of her being defenseless. There was just something wrong with Val not being in complete control of a situation, able to read and sway the thoughts of those around her—and carrying at least one concealed firearm in case superpowers weren’t enough. And if she had to be defenseless, then I should be there to protect her. I felt like a pathetic excuse for a husband.
I stopped at a crosswalk, waiting for the signal to change. For now, I was doing all I could. I’d find Mental, and if that was a dead-end, I’d find another lead. I’d even have dinner with Starla Strauss.
I would get Val back. I had to.
The green “Walk” sign flashed on, and I stepped into the street. One step was all I got before a black Maserati screeched to a halt in front of me, nearly running me down.
A tall, bulky man in a gray suit got out of the back seat. He had slicked-back salt and pepper hair, plus thick eyebrows and a hard mouth that gave him a permanently grim expression.
“Get in,” Giordano said.
“This isn’t the best time,” I replied. “Can I reschedule?”
“Get in or I’ll throw you in.”
I could fight back, but Giordano’s boss would just send someone else after me. And seeing how Giordano’s boss was my father-in-law, I figured I should just get this over with. After all, if Val’s side of the family wanted me dead, they’d have killed me years ago. I climbed into the back seat, and Giordano slid in after me and closed the door. Immediately, the car started forward.
“Is this going to take long?” I asked. “I have things I need to do today.”
He ignored me completely, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Huh. I’d expected at least a curse or two for old times’ sake. Joey Giordano was the Belmonte family’s underboss, the man who’d take over the organization when my father-in-law died. He was also the man who’d wanted to marry the eldest Belmonte daughter to secure his position, and he hadn’t taken it well when she chose me over him.
Still, if I had to spend time in a car with him, I shouldn’t complain about his silence. These were actually pretty darn good conditions for being abducted off the street. The leather seat was soft and comfortable, and the air-conditioner made for a refreshing relief from the oppressive heat outside. I occupied myself with the view out the window and enjoyed the smooth ride.
The whole city was busy with preparations for Hero-Fest. Signs hung in restaurant windows advertising special “super” discounts, and hotels proclaimed vacancy or no vacancy alongside cutesy claims like, “Heroes and villains welcome.” Windows were being cleaned, supplies stocked, and pamphlets distributed. Workers inflated a giant balloon in the shape of a superhero over one building, its costume suspiciously similar to that of the Crimson Phoenix but just different enough to avoid copyright problems. Tomorrow, the streets would be packed. Stalls would be set up on the sidewalk, music would be blaring, and a good quarter of the people would be wearing costumes of their own.
I wondered if Val would be able to see any of it. The festival was officially for heroes, not villains, but each year, plenty of people showed up to celebrate their favorite costumed criminals from the headlines. Val liked to find the Black Valentines. Her costume had changed several times over the years, but it had always involved black leather and was a popular choice for women, despite the Miami heat. Every year, Val would critique the costumes for accuracy. I’d be treated to such wisdom as, “I never wore heels. I would’ve loved to, of course, but it just makes running away such a hassle,” or, “Is she keeping her breasts in that outfit with tape? Those would spill out two seconds into a fight.” She’d get a kick out of the White Knight costumes, too, assuring me I pulled it off better than anyone.
It had only been a couple of hours. I was crazy to be missing her this much already.
The Maserati pulled up to one of the ritzy hotels in South Beach, and Giordano opened the door.
“Out,” he grunted.
People all around were pulling suitcases behind them and consulting tourist maps and Hero-Fest brochures. This was such a public place that I could probably escape, and Giordano wouldn’t be able to stop me without causing a scene. But that would only escalate things. Better to find out what the Belmontes wanted now. I followed Giordano into the elevator, together with a couple fresh from the pool in too-small swimsuits who were dripping onto the fancy carpet. The two were smiling when they got in, but Giordano and I must have been giving off what Val called a “psychic aura,” because the couple bolted out the moment the elevator doors opened on their floor.
Giordano and I continued up to the top, where the mobster led the way to what must have been the presidential suite. He unlocked the door and escorted me into a vast living area decorated in rich reds and golds, with landscape paintings of beach scenes and fresh flowers arranged artfully atop dark wooden tables. The windows probably had a fantastic ocean view, but their curtains were drawn, and Giordano made no move for any of the light switches. The air-conditioning had the room at upstate-winter levels of cold, making me shiver. You had to be imp
ressed with the effort they’d put into cutting this place off from the paradise outside.
“David, please, sit down.”
The voice was soft and slightly hoarse. Lucio Belmonte had never been an imposing man, even in his prime. I would say that appearances could be deceiving, but in my father-in-law’s case they could be deadly. Lucio was thin and sickly. His navy blue, pin-striped suit was immaculate, his snow-white hair combed back, but no amount of tidiness could hide the dark circles under his eyes and the sallowness of his wrinkled skin. One of the plush red chairs had been pushed aside to make room for his wheelchair, and a blanket covered his legs.
Before a team of DSA telepaths had obliterated his powers, Lucio’s consciousness could have left that body and possessed anyone within twenty feet of him. The mafia boss had killed countless people, letting those whose bodies he’d controlled take the fall for murder. No one knew how many people had been wrongly imprisoned because of him, and even today, people tried to plead not guilty by saying he’d taken them over.
His victims said it was like being possessed by the devil himself. They called him Mr. Lucifer.
“I’d rather stand,” I said. I knew direct confrontation was a bad idea this early but couldn’t help myself. The man had never physically harmed Val or Elisa, but he definitely hadn’t provided them with a warm and caring environment growing up.
Giordano moved forward like he was going to force me down into a chair, but Lucio waved a withered hand, motioning him off.
“I don’t have time for games,” Lucio said. “Why is my daughter in DSA custody?”
I looked at the old man warily. “Why are you asking? I thought you didn’t want anything to do with her anymore. You disowned her.”
“I did nothing of the sort.”
“Your exact words were, ‘From this moment on, I wash my hands of you. You’re no longer a part of this family.’”
Lucio’s carefully controlled expression twitched. “Fathers worry about their daughters. You of all people should understand that.”
I considered it. Giving information to Lucio Belmonte was always a risk; you never knew what he might do with it. The man was a monster, but he honestly cared about Val in his own twisted way. And he would find out what was going on whether I told him or not. It would be better to give him my own version of events.
“She’s charged with murder,” I said.
Lucio stared at me impassively. “She gave the DSA reason to suspect her? How sloppy.”
“She didn’t do anything. She was framed.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know yet. I was in the middle of investigating when you took me off the streets.”
I paused to throw a glare at Giordano.
Lucio drummed his fingers on the side of his chair. “And you can’t convince them to release her?”
“It doesn’t work like that.”
“David, when my daughter left her family to marry you, it became your responsibility to care for her. I’m unimpressed with your efforts so far.”
“I’m doing everything I can.”
“I would certainly hope so,” he said. “You’re allowed to raise my granddaughter because it’s her mother’s wish, but if Valentina is sent to jail, I’m taking Elisa back to her real family.”
I felt like I’d just been hit. Every muscle in my body tensed, and I clenched the handle of my cane. “You have no authority to—”
“Please,” Lucio spat. “Don’t confuse legal permission with authority. I have the power to, and that’s all that matters.”
My hand was shaking with the effort of keeping calm. I reminded myself that attacking him would cause more problems than it solved. Lucio had more security than just Giordano; I couldn’t see them, but I’d be stupid to think they weren’t there. Maybe a decade ago, I could have taken them all, but now… Anyway, I was retired. A fight would get me arrested, and that wouldn’t help Val.
“Keep Valentina out of jail, and we won’t have a problem,” Lucio said. “That should be simple enough for a famous superhero like you, shouldn’t it?”
I took a deep breath and reined in my temper. Lucio was just lucky I’d had a lot of practice at it over the years.
“I think we’re done here,” I said.
Lucio looked like he had more to say, but then he nodded, and Giordano escorted me out.
As I sat in the back of the Maserati, returning to the other side of town, I couldn’t keep my mouth from twisting into a scowl. The whole thing had been pointless. Lucio didn’t need to threaten me to motivate me. My wife had been framed for murder. There was no possible way his bullying would make me want to clear her name any more than I already did. And bringing Elisa into it just gave me one more thing to worry about. I’d have to make arrangements in case the worst happened. I didn’t even want to consider the possibility that I wouldn’t be able to save Val, but I had to. There was no way I was letting Lucio take my daughter.
And if anything happened to me… Ideally, I’d want my mother to get custody of Elisa, but a seventy-three-year-old woman would be no match for Val’s side of the family, even if she had superpowers. One of Val’s sisters actually wasn’t too bad, and it would probably be all right if Elisa ended up with her instead of with Lucio at the family’s main house. But that hadn’t happened last time Val went to jail, and I had no reason to think this time would be any different. Besides, when Lady Nightmare was the best possible guardian for your child, there was definitely something wrong with the situation.
I was still pondering the problem when the Maserati pulled up to the same corner I’d been abducted from.
“Out,” said Giordano.
“You’re not going to get the door for me?”
Giordano didn’t respond. Nobody appreciated classic superhero banter anymore. Shrugging, I opened the door, picked up my cane, and climbed out.
“Watch yourself, Del Toro,” he growled.
I raised an eyebrow. I’d honestly expected better threats from a villain of Giordano's caliber.
The Maserati drove off, and I stood on the street corner, waiting for the crosswalk light to turn green. The least they could have done was drop me off closer to the parking garage. I shook my head and put the problem with Lucio at the back of my mind. Worrying about it wouldn’t help me right now. I needed to focus on my next move.
I’d survived one meeting with a supervillain today. Now it was time for the second.
• • •
Mental lived in the neighborhood of Wynwood, far enough from the art district to be removed from the galleries and museums, but close enough to have some really fantastic graffiti. Crumbling buildings behind chain-link fences were covered with beautiful murals, and sections of wall by the road had been painted over multiple times. Looking at them was a nice diversion. I passed a detailed portrait of a woman with long, flowing hair, exaggerated cartoons of famous superheroes, and everywhere colors that brightened up the street. When I pulled up to Mental’s ramshackle apartment, I hoped someone would take pity on it and cover it in art soon.
The building might have originally been flamingo pink, but the paint had faded and peeled and was now more of a rotten salmon color. It had probably once had a lawn, too, and not just a plot of weeds. I sighed when I found no elevator and slowly made my way up the stairs, my knee protesting every step. Mental was on the second floor, apartment 205, though the five had fallen off the door leaving only a darkened impression. The doorbell was broken, so I knocked.
A second later, I felt the tickling presence of someone reading my mind. It was only a cursory scan, so I didn’t try to block it out. The door opened a moment later.
Milton Ellsworth, aka Mental, was not a physically impressive man. Short, pudgy, and balding, he’d only gotten shorter, pudgier, and balder with age. Then again, his power was his mind; he didn’t need to keep his body in shape. While his apartment building might have been grungy, the man himself was impeccably neat. He wore gray slacks and a white dre
ss shirt, stiff with starch and unnaturally devoid of a single wrinkle. His shoes were even shined, like he was going out to a business meeting and not stuck under house arrest. My dad used to tell stories of uniform inspections from his boot camp days, having to iron around buttonholes and fold pants with microscopic precision. Mental had picked up those skills without the motivation of a yelling drill sergeant.
“White Knight. To what do I owe the honor?”
“I’m here to talk about Supersonic’s murder,” I said, though with his mind-reading, he must already know that.
“I already talked to the DSA.”
“And now you’ll talk to me.”
Mental gave me a calculating look for several long seconds in silence. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
“Fine. Come in.”
He turned around and walked deeper into his apartment. I followed, assaulted by an overwhelming smell of cleaning solution and air freshener. The place was flawlessly tidy. Shelves were all dusted, and the floor looked as sterile as an operating table. Curtains were tied off to either side of the window, symmetrical to the millimeter. An antique carpet covered the living room floor, smoothed to perfection, and every single tassel on its border was straight. A magazine, a pen, and a coaster sat on his coffee table, each one lined up parallel to the edge and spaced evenly apart. There’s neat-freak clean, obsessive-compulsive clean, and then there’s serial-killer clean. Guess which category Mental fell under?
He sat down on the couch, his back straight. He gestured for me to join him, but I remained standing.
“Where were you last night?” I asked.
“Here. I’m always here. I have witnesses.”
“Witnesses don’t mean anything with a telepath.”
“Then ask the DSA.” He bent down and raised the leg of his pants, revealing his ankle monitor.
“Those can be tampered with.”
“And you can kiss my ass. You’ve got nothing on me.”
Hero Status Page 3
