by David Liss
“Maybe you asked him and he clammed up,” Bingham added. “Maybe you didn’t have the guts to ask him. You clearly have guts, but when it comes to him—I ain’t so sure. Still, you’ve got the guts to come here and spy on me, and then ask me about it—go toe-to-toe with a guy who could wipe the floor with you. That’s what I think.”
Maya narrowed her eyes. Bingham wasn’t terribly smart—of that she was certain. At the same time, he had a kind of animal cunning that made him dangerous. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him again.
Yet she could use him to her advantage. A person like this, who likely had struggled in school, who had spent his whole life knowing he wasn’t smart enough, would have weaknesses she could exploit.
“Very good,” she said. Best to soft-pedal it. “You’re not wrong, but just because Mr. Fisk hasn’t chosen to tell me everything, you don’t have to make the same choice. We could come to an understanding.” Even she wasn’t sure what that might mean, but his reaction could speak volumes.
He snorted. “Nice try,” he said, “but I’m not saying anything that might affect me getting paid. I need money… for my things.”
“Okay, then at least tell me this,” she said. “Where did you get those moves? How did you learn to imitate Spider-Man, and do it so well?”
“Imitate?” Bingham choked out the word. “I’m not imitating anyone. I am Spider-Man.”
Maya stared at him, not sure what to say.
“Look—look at this.” He lifted his shirt. At first glance he appeared to have a bandage strapped across his stomach. Then she realized it was a pouch, the sort nervous travelers wore when in strange cities, so they wouldn’t have to leave their passports in hotel rooms or risk having them stolen out of pockets or backpacks. Bingham reached into the pouch and pulled out an old black-and-white photo, unfolding it. It was brittle and held together by tape, where folds had split long ago. He handed it to her.
The photo showed Spider-Man swinging through Midtown. He was facing toward the camera, as if he knew it was there. There was something about the angle and the composition of the image that made it appear as if he was looking right at the viewer. No, it was something more than that. It felt as if he was looking into her.
Maya refolded it quickly. She couldn’t stomach even the illusion that Spider-Man might read her thoughts. He’d know them in the end, though. She would be the last person he saw when she avenged her father.
There was some small printing on the back of the photograph. It was a Daily Bugle logo and a date from six years earlier. She handed the print back to Bingham, letting go the moment his fingers made contact. Maya didn’t want him touching her. He was creepy.
“Do you see it?” he asked.
“Honestly,” she said, “no, I don’t.”
He snorted and put the photo back in his secret pouch. “They never do. Not until it’s too late. Soon it’ll be too late for you, deaf girl.” Abruptly he waved toward the hallway. “Now get out of here while you still can.” With that he turned his back on her, and Maya had the distinct impression he was still talking to her, deliberately saying things he knew she couldn’t hear.
Opening the door, she walked out of his apartment, more confused than ever. What was Mr. Fisk thinking, putting his trust in someone so unpredictable? What could be so important? He was a man who never took chances, who mapped out every move like a chess master. Why on earth would he introduce such irrationality into his oh-so-rational world?
Yet experience told her not to doubt. There had been times in the past when she’d been unable to see her mentor’s grand strategy. Though she was ashamed to admit it, there had even been a time when she’d doubted his innocence. Yet he’d always proved himself prescient and precise and just. Here again, she might doubt—but eventually she’d see the wisdom of his actions. She knew it to be true.
But she also knew she could not let it go.
AFTER finishing at the lab, Peter took a few hours to patrol the streets as Spider-Man. It was important to make an appearance every day, if possible. If he gave himself any time off, rumors would begin to fly. Was he hurt? Had he been killed?
The Daily Bugle, back when J. Jonah Jameson was in charge, had been inclined to go to extremes. Once, when he’d gone on a long weekend trip with Aunt May, the Bugle’s headline pronounced: FAKE HERO TOO BUSY FOR FOUR-ALARM FIRE.
Now, with his suit packed away in his backpack, he met MJ for a late dinner. It was nowhere fancy because Peter considered himself a man of simple tastes—at least that’s what he told himself when faced with the cost of eating out in New York City. He picked a sandwich place just off Times Square because it was shockingly good, reasonably priced, and relatively unknown to tourists.
“You sure know how to show a girl a good time,” MJ chided as they waited on line to order.
“You love this place,” he reminded her.
She smiled at him. “I love this place.”
With overstuffed sandwiches, filling bursting out of the bread, they found a seat toward the back. Peter was starving. His enhanced metabolism required a lot of food, and he often had to hastily down energy bars during the day, just to keep his mind focused. He wanted to make this sandwich submit to its new master, and quickly, but he’d learned from experience that even the most understanding girlfriend frowned upon eating food like a starving barbarian.
Besides, MJ had a serious look on her face.
“What’s going on?” he asked her.
She smirked at him. “I feel like I’m in a cartoon, and you see me as steaming platter of chicken,” she said playfully. “Why don’t you get friendly with your dinner before we talk?”
He knew that tone, and he didn’t like it.
“That sounds ominous.”
She flicked her fingers at his food.
When she wouldn’t say another word, Peter gave in and took a big bite. It was as good as he remembered.
“I’m in at the Bugle,” she said.
“That’s so great!” He burst into a grin, and then clamped his mouth shut. Shards of bacon were probably sticking out of his teeth like broken fence posts. He swallowed quickly, then said, “I know much you’ve wanted this—and how hard you’ve worked. You must be ecstatic.”
“You have no idea,” she said. “I think this is it, Peter—what I’m supposed to be doing. I don’t mean in some kind of cosmic sense, but people can have a calling, a thing they’re better suited for than anything else. You have yours.”
Peter wished he had that same kind of confidence. He was sure MJ meant his career as Spider-Man, but she didn’t know the doubts he’d been experiencing—that web-slinging might be getting in the way of his calling. And this wasn’t the time to tell her. This was her moment.
“There are some things we really need to talk about,” she continued.
Uh-oh.
Talks that included a preamble were never good. Peter didn’t always feel as if he knew a lot about life, but he knew that much.
As he began to respond, his phone buzzed. Peter had tinkered with his phone so that Yuri could contact him without ever knowing his real number. It had meant setting up a second line on the same cell phone—something that wasn’t supposed to be possible, but there were a lot of things that were supposed to be impossible, yet people did them all the time.
He gave MJ an apologetic look.
“Take it if you need to,” she said without a hint of irritation. She knew who and what he was, what kind of responsibilities rested on his shoulders. While she could be disappointed or frustrated with how that affected them as a couple, she was never angry. In fact, she was always supportive. That, he knew, was a rare thing.
“Lieutenant,” he said. He tried to sound calm and wise, but came off like the villain in a spy movie. “What’s up?” he added—not, in his opinion, making things any better.
“This new partnership of ours,” she said. “I need you for it.”
“Like right now?” he asked.
“Are
you busy saving the world or something?”
“No, I’m having dinner with my girlfriend.”
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t have a girlfriend?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I just never imagined you having a normal life—just figured when you weren’t swinging around the city you went back to, I don’t know, your lair or something. Besides, you sound kind of dorky.”
“I’m a normal person,” he said. “I’m so normal it would terrify you. I’m also very non-dorky.”
MJ just shot him a smirk.
“Then tell your long-suffering girlfriend you have to go,” Watanabe said. “I’ll text you the location.”
“Is it important?”
“Only if you want to get Wilson Fisk,” she said, and hung up.
Peter looked over at MJ.
“You have to go,” she said.
“I’m really sorry, MJ,” he said. “Can you maybe say what you need to say before I run out?”
“It can wait,” she said. “You go do your thing.”
Sometimes it was unnatural how reasonable she was. Whatever she wanted, whatever she needed, he would take care of it.
He gave her a quick kiss, wrapped up the remains of his sandwich, and headed for the door. Then he turned back to her.
“Don’t even consider doing a write-up of this place for the Bugle,” he said in his most serious I mean it tone. “It’ll get too crowded.”
“Tough call,” she said. “I don’t want to be remembered as the reporter who somehow missed the big sandwich story.”
He dashed out.
* * *
BINGHAM zoomed into the tracking device’s location. A restaurant off Times Square.
Perfect.
A busy location would provide just the right kind of attention, and if the false Spider-Man liked this place, then he’d take it personally.
It was exactly what he needed. He headed for the fire escape.
* * *
“SO this is your idea of a good place for a little chat?”
They stood on a rooftop in the west fifties, overshadowed by Fisk Tower. Watanabe wore a long coat, and her short hair fluttered in the wind, but she didn’t look in any way uncomfortable.
“Seemed like a good place to talk without being seen or overheard,” she said, “but I guess we could meet in a diner next time, if you want.”
“Good point,” he said. “I guess I don’t have a lot of meetings.”
“We all have our shortcomings,” she said. “Now, do you want to help me get Fisk or not?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I’ve been spending a lot of time thinking about what I can do with direct access to Spider-Man.” When he started to protest, she held up a hand. “Don’t interrupt. I asked myself, what value can you bring to the investigation? Well, like I said before, you have access I don’t, to places and things.”
“You can’t get a search warrant?” he asked. “Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?”
“The way it’s supposed to, yes, but this is the real world. Fisk has a lot of influence inside the department. I’m not sure how much, and I don’t know who I can trust, but I have my suspicions about a number of people—including my immediate supervisor. I’ve been warned about freelancing on this case, and if I’m found out, then it could mean my job.”
“So why not let someone else deal with it?” Spider-Man asked. “Why take the heat?”
“Because no one is dealing with it,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s because Fisk has greased the right palms, or because the last time we tried to get him it was a PR fiasco the department wants to forget. Now that he’s trying to play himself off as Saint Wilson, brass seem even more gun-shy. The bottom line is that if I don’t do this, it won’t get done.”
“But why you?” Peter pressed.
“I was involved in the case eight years ago,” she said. “I was just a rookie, but I played a small part. When the authorities were closing in, and Fisk got scared, he had to shut up a lot of people. I worked my share of those murders, and I’ll never forget them. There were spouses and kids and neighbors who got caught up in the mess.
“Fisk is still walking around. That’s why me.”
“So what do you have in mind?” Spider-Man said.
“Fisk might have people in the police department, but I have people in the Fisk operation,” she said, staring at the looming tower. “No, don’t get excited. It’s no one high up—a mail clerk here, a marketing flunky there. People who can give me snippets of information for me to piece together.” She turned to face him. “I’ve got a line on something now. It won’t look like much—it’s a payroll file—but I think it’ll fit with some of the other data I’ve collected.”
“You want me to break into Fisk Tower just to steal a file?”
“Not steal,” she said, “copy. I can give you a camera if you need one.”
“I’ve got one,” he replied. “That’s not the point.”
“The file’s been left on a desk,” she said, without letting him continue. “It’ll have to be put away by the morning. My contact could lose her job if they discover she left it out, so it has to be tonight. You’re not afraid of going into Fisk Tower, are you?”
“Of course I’m not, but do you really need Spider-Man for this? I mean, I hate to toot my own horn, but honestly, there’s a principle here. You could hire a private detective to do this sort of thing.”
“Gosh, have I offended your dignity?” Watanabe asked. “If you know a PI who could get into Fisk Tower tonight, and not leave a trace, please, give me his business card.” She took a step closer. “Look, I’m sorry this isn’t glamorous enough for you. It’s not as exciting as fighting rhinoceros people or leaping lizards, but this is how cases get made.”
“You really think you can do this?”
“I’ve studied what went wrong last time,” she said. “I know exactly what we need and what we can do. If you help me with these kinds of surgical strikes, I think we can build a case against Fisk in a year, eighteen months tops.”
Eighteen months. Peter had been hoping for something more like the Thursday after next. If he was going to quit being Spider-Man he’d been thinking—in the back of his mind—that a Fisk arrest was a fitting conclusion to his career. Fisk was the one who got away. If he could put that guy behind bars, maybe the city wouldn’t need a web-slinger anymore.
But eighteen months.
He’d never really thought about giving himself some kind of retirement date. Suddenly the idea of doing this for another year and a half seemed exhausting. Still, how could he say no? How could he refuse to help this detective who knew what she was doing, and who had a plan.
“I’ll do it.”
“What a prince,” she said.
* * *
GETTING around Fisk’s security wasn’t going to be a problem. He’d figured that out long ago. It involved going in circuitously—hitting the roof, slipping into an HVAC shaft, tinkering with some wires. It took about an hour. After that, it was a matter of redirecting some cameras and being careful.
There were some places in the tower he wouldn’t dare attempt to go without more recon and planning, but the cubicle farm on the 48th floor should be safe. The Web-Slinger slipped in, found the desk number Watanabe had given him, and used his suit camera to copy the twenty-plus pages of the document.
Piece of cake.
A call came in just as he was finishing up. He didn’t recognize the number, and it went to voice mail. He decided to check it to see if it was anything important.
“Hey, Peter.” It was Anika. Uh-oh. “Just, you know, calling. Uh-huh, that’s what I’m doing. Using the phone to talk about science stuff. Yeah, I have some questions about procedures at the lab. I guess. I don’t know. Anyhow call me back if you get a chance… or, if not, I’ll see you at the lab. It’s fine either way. Sorry about interrupting your evening. You don
’t have to call back. Unless you want to. Okay. Bye.”
Well, that was adorable, but also kind of problematic. Could she be interested in him? He was going to need to let her know he wasn’t available, and as soon as possible. The trick was to avoid making her feel embarrassed. He liked her, and he didn’t want her being weird and uncomfortable around him.
That was a problem for another time, though.
He began the process of slipping out the way he’d come in, which meant more wriggling through air shafts—no one’s idea of a good time. He had to pause a few times along the way because he was afraid of being noisy. Once he had to stop because he heard voices. He was about to move along when realized he knew one of the speakers.
It was Fisk.
He recognized the depth and the cadence of it, but he couldn’t make out the words. It was impossible to pick out from the distance and through the walls. The smart thing to do would be to keep going.
He couldn’t do it.
Quietly, Spider-Man removed the grating from the shaft, and slipped out onto the floor. He wasn’t entirely certain where he was, so he did a quick scan for security cameras. There were plenty and they were everywhere—though none were pointing in his direction—so he figured he had to be on one of the executive floors.
There was a light coming from one of the offices, which meant the conversation was probably coming from there. He had to get closer.
He looked at the cameras. If he used just a little bit of webbing on each one, he could freeze them in place and work around their range of vision. The devices oscillated slowly enough that the security guards might not even notice for hours, by which time the webs would have dissolved. Even if they did notice, they’d first assume it was a system failure, not a physical obstruction. Again, it should buy him plenty of time.
Choosing his first target, he aimed and webbed. Within minutes the cameras were safely immobilized, and he zigzagged across the room to crouch just outside the office door.
