Superhero Detective Series (Book 3): Killshot

by Darius Brasher

  The Indian woman must have felt me looking at her. Her eyes flicked over to mine. She studied me coolly. Then, her eyes suddenly widened in recognition. She looked away. The panic which has been mounting in me faded. The woman looking away from me made me suddenly realize where I knew her from.

  The Indian woman’s blonde companion noticed her reaction to me. She looked at me as well. Her blue eyes looked me up and down assessingly. She was no doubt appraising my net worth and calculating how much of it she could extract from me. For, I now recognized the Indian woman as being a high-priced call girl. Based on her appearance and attitude, her blonde friend was one as well. Birds of a feather flocked together. For the right amount of money they would no doubt do more than just flock. But who was I to judge how other people flocked behind closed doors?

  Almost a year ago I had kicked in a hotel room door while on the hunt for a supervillain named Wrecking Ball. I found him all right: in bed, naked, with his wrecking balls deep in the Indian woman who now stood at the railing. Wrecking Ball’s hands—and other parts—had been full when I burst in, so knocking him unconscious had been an easy matter. Since I was not a vice cop, I had simply told the Indian woman to get out before I dealt with Wrecking Ball.

  “But he hasn’t paid me yet!” she had protested as she stood in front of me naked.

  “Demanding payment for an illegal act from a licensed Hero? Pretty cheeky,” I had said to her. The irony of my use of the word “cheeky” had seemed lost on her as she had stood in front of me with her full buttocks bare. I had fished Wrecking Ball’s wallet out of his pants on the floor and paid the woman. As she had walked out of the door clutching her clothes, she had averted her eyes from mine then just as she had now in the casino. It was her doing so now that made me recognize her. The fact she was wearing more clothes now than then—though barely—was probably why I had not recognized her immediately.

  These two scantily clad railbirds were no doubt on the hunt for a couple of rich worms, which was probably why they were perched next to the railing surveying the people on the other side like livestock about to be slaughtered.

  From birds to worms to cattle. I really needed to work on not mixing my metaphors.

  I was more relaxed now that I realized why I recognized the Indian woman. I was tempted to walk up to her and her friend and ask them “How’s tricks?” but I was afraid they would not appreciate the pun. After all, the Indian woman had not noticed the double-meaning behind the word “cheeky” when I had encountered her before. I was not going to waste good puns twice on the same person. I was famous for my pun frugality.

  I turned my attention away from the hookers. I continued to look around. I stopped. Yet another woman at the rail was vaguely familiar to me. As with the Indian woman, I could not put my finger on why. This woman was of average height, and had on white pants and a fitted black silk top. The most striking thing about her was her hair. Her hair was snow white and matched her pants. The color was clearly not natural, but it suited her somehow. Everything else about the woman was so ordinary that the hair seemed fitting, like a bright pocket square adding a splash of color to an otherwise dull business suit.

  As I looked at the woman and tried to dredge up from my throbbing brain why she seemed familiar to me, the woman locked eyes with me. The woman’s face was expressionless. Then, without her face otherwise moving a muscle, the woman winked at me. She then looked away. The woman’s face was so serious and the wink happened so quickly I was not sure I had not simply imagined it.

  I shook my head to try to clear it. It hurt. I felt unsteady, unfocused. The boredom I was experiencing was not helping. Being surrounded by drinks and drinkers most definitely was not helping. I was terribly thirsty, but it was not water I craved. I felt like a man dying of thirst afloat in an ocean of undrinkable sea water.

  I was of little use to Eugene like this. An assassin might be standing right in front of me, and I would miss him.

  I leaned down over Eugene’s shoulder.

  “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” I said to him. Eugene looked up from the table.

  “But we just went not that long ago,” he said. Eugene had needed to use the bathroom before, and I had escorted him. I had felt a little bit like his mother. If Eugene’s mother was as hairy as I though, God only knew how she convinced his father to get inside of her long enough to produce Eugene. Entangled him in her chest hair, maybe.

  “True, but the call of nature waits for no one,” I said. “Just stay at the table. I’ll be back before you’ll know I’m gone.”

  Eugene nodded in agreement. He immediately turned his attention back to the poker table. It occurred to me Eugene might have a gambling addiction. There were a lot of addiction problems going around.

  I walked through the small opening in the gold railing and down the three stairs to the main poker room floor. I noticed out of my peripheral vision that the Indian prostitute studiously ignored me as I swept close by her. My mind was not focused on her, though; I was just focused on getting out of the poker room. Even so, with each step I took towards the bathroom located outside the other end of the poker room, something nagged at the edge of my consciousness. It tried to demand my attention, like a gnat I could hear but not see. I threaded my way through the poker tables and the throng of people to get out of the poker room, which took me almost a full minute to do.

  Once outside the poker room, I turned right, towards the men’s bathroom. I stopped at the bathroom entrance and waited. There were so many casino patrons there that night and so many waitresses buzzing around to serve them that I knew I would not have to wait long. I only waited for about thirty seconds before a waitress burdened with a tray full of drinks swung into view by walking around a slot machine and towards me.

  “Can I take a couple of those drinks off your hands, miss?” I said to her as she approached.

  She glanced at me. She gave me a tired smile. Her caked on makeup hid how young she was. If you scrubbed it off of her, she would barely look old enough to drink the drinks she was carrying. Based on how she was walking, her high-heeled feet hurt as much as my head did.

  “Sorry, sir, but another patron ordered these,” she said. She stopped in front of me when she saw the twenty dollar bill I was holding. Her smile widened a bit. “Well hello, Mr. Jackson. It turns out you were the person who ordered these drinks. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  I smiled back at her. Her name tag read Nicole. I tucked the twenty into the cup Nicole kept on her tray for tips. Without examining the selection of drinks on the tray, I picked up two cups at random. If I took the time to figure out what was in the drinks, I might stop myself from drinking them. I was in no mood to stop myself.

  “Thanks, Nicole,” I said. Even without swallowing a drop, I felt better simply holding the drinks in my hand.

  “You’re very welcome,” she said, smiling up at me. Her eyes flashed with a look of interest I knew all too well. I knew it so well because I was usually the one who had it in my eye. “The next time you need a drink—or anything else—you be sure to find me.” Nicole then walked away. Her hips swayed in an exaggerated fashion as she left. I knew because I examined them closely. Though I was not old enough to be Nicole’s father, I felt old enough these days to be her grandfather. As a result, I felt faintly creepy and pedophilic as I watched the young woman walk away. It was not enough to stop me from looking. Though I did not think it likely, what if Nicole turned out to be the Metahuman I had encountered days before? Occasional creepiness and eternal vigilance were the high price one paid to be a Hero.

  Once Nicole and her hips turned the corner, I turned my attention to the drinks in my hands. They were in clear plastic cups. The casino did not serve drinks in glass. It would be too easy for a drunken brawl to turn deadly if someone in the casino had easy access to broken glass. The drink in my left hand was clear and bubbly. It was a vodka tonic from the look and smell of it. The other one was dark, filled with mashed fruit and ice, a
nd smelled of rum. At the risk of sounding sexist, it was a girly drink. It was not something I personally would ever order. But hey, any port in a storm. I would have preferred actual port, though.

  I started to lift the vodka tonic to my lips. I stopped halfway. After all, I had given my word to Eugene I would not drink while I worked to protect him.

  What Eugene does not know won’t hurt him, a voice in my head whispered seductively. Besides, we’re doing this for him. We’re shaky and unfocused. The drinks will take the edge off. Make us more effective.

  A faint memory of something from days before at Perk Up hovered at the edge of my awareness. I shove the not fully formed thought to the side. I returned my attention to the drink in my hand. It was room temperature. No ice. Just the way I liked it.

  I lifted it to my lips. The smell of it filled my nose and my awareness. God, how I missed the smell and the feeling that followed. Wasn’t that feeling more important than some cheap words I had mouthed to Eugene before?

  Unbidden, the last images I had of Clara Barton and my sister Helen before they died rose in my mind, like restless ghosts. There was a look of reproof and disappointment on their faces. Regret and self-loathing washed over me like a wave. My throat felt tight. My eyes got wet, blurring the sight of the liquid in the cup. It shimmered through my tears, like the mirage of an oasis in the searing heat of a desert. Like a mirage, maybe the solace I sought in the alcohol was not real either.

  The cup was against my closed lips. Opening them and taking a long swallow would be the easiest thing in the world to do. But, hadn’t Helen died because a Lord had taken a drink when he should not have? Hadn’t I already failed to protect Clara? Would taking this drink lead me to failing Eugene, too? What would Clara think of me if I broke my word to Eugene? She had looked up to me. Though she was dead, I still wanted her to be able to look up to me. And, I still wanted to be able to look myself in the eye. That was something that had been harder and harder for me to do the deeper I climbed into bottles.

  I stopped myself before my lips opened to swallow. No. No, the feeling that accompanied the alcohol was not more important than my promises. What the hell was wrong with me? My word, once given, used to be an unbreakable bond. How could anyone trust me as a Hero or a man if that was not the case? How could I trust myself? True, Eugene would not know I had taken a drink. But, anyone could keep his word or do the right thing when someone was looking over his shoulder. Wasn’t the true measure of a man what he did when no one was looking?

  Though I still wanted to drain it dry, I lowered the cup of vodka. My heart pounded. Before I changed my mind, I started to dump the two cups into the trash bin outside the bathroom. I stopped before doing it. I did not want some overworked janitor to have to deal with a wet, alcohol-reeking mass of trash.

  I stepped into the men’s bathroom. Against one of the long walls of the rectangular room was a row of sinks under a long mirror. I went to the nearest sink. An elderly, white-haired black man was washing his hands in the sink next to me. I dumped the vodka tonic into the sink. The smell of liquor filled the air. I cupped my hand over the top of the other drink and upended it, catching the ice and mashed up fruit in my fingers as the liquid poured down around them into the sink. No sense in making some cleaning person have to clean up after my mess by dumping the whole thing—fruit, ice, and all—into the sink. The downside was I wanted to lick my fingers clean.

  Through the mirror in front of us, the black man watched me dump the drinks out. He had a slightly amused look on his face.

  “Decided you’ve had enough? Smart man. It’s good to know your limits,” the man said. “Believe me, I’ve been there.” He winked at me. I froze.

  The wink. That was it! His wink flipped a switch in me. The thing that had been buzzing around my head on the edge of my consciousness suddenly came into clear view. I knew why the woman at the rail with the white hair looked familiar. The woman at the rail who had winked at me was the same woman I had winked at days before in Perk Up. Her different clothing, hair color, hair-style, and lack of glasses had thrown me off. But it was her. I was sure of it. And, that woman was the same height and build of the Meta I had confronted after she tried to run us down. I could not believe I had not realized it before. Perhaps alcohol—or, lack of it—had dulled my mind and instincts.

  What were the chances it was a random coincidence the same woman was in both Perk Up and the casino at the same time Eugene and I were? I was no mathematician, but I feared the answer was zero. Not all fear was the result of irrational paranoia. I had learned over the years a seeming coincidence was often the workings of a plot you were not privy to.

  That all went through my mind in a horrifying flash. Cursing, I dropped the cups onto the floor. Fruit and ice sprayed out like shrapnel. I bolted out of the bathroom, shoving a man who was coming in out of the way. I left his cries of protest behind. My hand was wet with rum. I flew up the short stairs to the poker room. Even from this far away, I could see there was a commotion in the high stakes area on the far end of the room. My heart sank. I rushed through the crowded poker room as quickly as I could, suspecting and dreading what I would find when I got to the other side.

  I leapt onto the high stakes dais and burst through the opening in the railing. A knot of people surrounded Eugene’s table, obscuring him from my sight. I pushed and shoved my way through them. I froze in front of Eugene’s chair. I saw what I halfway expected to see, and what I wholeheartedly did not want to see.

  Eugene was sitting where I left him. His open, unseeing eyes stared off into the distance. He was frowning slightly, as if he was solving a particularly thorny math problem in his head. There was a hole in his clothes, just right of the center of his chest. The hole was about the size of an oversized pencil. A bit of coagulated blood formed an oblong bubble right below the hole. It looked like a giant crimson tear.

  I leaned over Eugene’s body. There was a slight smell of ozone and of cooked meat, like someone had just seared a steak. I reached out to check Eugene’s pulse on his neck. My hand stank of rum. The smell was a silent reproach. When I touched him, Eugene’s body slumped forward a bit. The same hole that was on the front of him was also on his back. There was also a hole through the back of the chair. The edges of the hole in the chair were charred.

  My fingers confirmed what my powers said. My powers had told me before I even touched Eugene that his heart was no longer pumping blood through his body. I had hoped I was so keyed up that my powers were wrong, though I had known they were not. Wishful thinking.

  Eugene was dead.

  I stood up straight. Rage bubbled up inside of me, threatening to erupt. I was angry at whoever had done this, yes. But, I was especially angry at myself. Eugene had been killed while I was off scoring a drink.

  First Clara had died on my watch, now Eugene.

  Some bodyguard I turned out to be.

  Some Hero.

  CHAPTER 12

  Okay, I had been gone from Eugene’s side for how long? Five minutes? Seven minutes, tops? The person who killed Eugene could not have gotten far.

  I glanced around. The man who had been sitting next to Eugene at the poker table was now standing a couple of feet away, staring at Eugene’s body with open-mouthed disbelief. He looked like he had just seen an UFO abduct Bigfoot. Though the man had pale skin, he looked even paler than he had before I left.

  “How long ago did this happen?” I asked him. I had to say it again in a louder voice for the question to sink in. The man looked at me, shaking his head as if awaking from a dream.

  “A couple of minutes ago,” he said. “Maybe a little more or less.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” volunteered another bystander, a heavyset woman with long brown hair. “There was a bright flash of light, and then suddenly your friend was like this.”

  “Did you see where the light came from?” I asked her. She seemed less shell-shocked than the man. She shook her head no. “Did anyone see where the light came f
rom?” I asked, raising my voice to address the growing crowd of people who were gathering around. The question was met with a chorus of noes and head shakes. Great. A room full of people, and no one saw what happened. At least they had been in the room. That was more than I could say.

  The array of cameras in the room no doubt recorded where the light came from. I could look at their footage later. In the meantime, I had a sneaking suspicion of where the light had come from: the woman who I winked at a few days ago and who had winked back at me just a few minutes ago.

  I jumped on a chair. Though I was taller than almost everyone around me, I wanted an even better vantage point. I took a quick but careful look around. I did not see the white-haired woman in or near the high stakes area. With her unusual hair color, she would have been hard to miss.

  “Someone tell a casino employee my friend needs a doctor,” I said, jumping back down. I was on the move through the crowd of people as soon as my feet hit the floor. I knew it was too late for a doctor to do anything unless there was a doctor who could raise the dead. Couldn’t hurt to be safe, though. “And someone call 911,” I shouted, pushing through the ever-growing throng of people.

  I went back down onto the main poker room floor. I moved as quickly as I dared while still being attentive as I went through the players and tables to the poker room exit. I kept my eyes peeled for the white-haired woman. I did not see her as I worked my way through the room. Frankly, I had not expected to. If I had just killed someone in a crowded area, I would not stick around either. I would leave the area as quickly as I could without seeming to be in a hurry in order to avoid drawing attention to myself. I would operate under the assumption that was what she was doing, and head to the nearest casino exit in the hopes I could find her before she got out of the building. It was my best shot. Maybe my only one. If the woman escaped the building, how would I find her then? I doubted she would turn up in the casino’s Lost and Found. Maybe my good sense and judgment were there. I clearly did not have them with me when I stupidly left Eugene alone.