Superhero Detective Series (Book 1): Superhero Detective For Hire

by Brasher, Darius

  Lady Justice had killed George and David. And, if she had her way, she would have killed me as well. Despite all her power, she was no true Hero.

  “And to think I used to have a crush on you,” I said aloud to her still form.

  CHAPTER 24

  Three days after capturing Lady Justice, I sat in my office. Glenn sat across from me. I was glad he was there, and not just because he had brought doughnuts again. My office had become a madhouse. Once word had gotten out about what Lady Justice had done and the fact I was the one to catch her, I turned into an instant celebrity. I had been involved in some high-profile cases before, but it was nothing like this as Lady Justice was a household name.

  I was not enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame. I had lost count of all the people who had either called or come by. Some of those people had been members of the media, but most had just been people who wanted to talk to or see the man who brought Lady Justice to, well, justice. People had been gawking at me like I was Bigfoot.

  That was why I was glad Glenn was there. If one more person came in to stare at me, I might shoot them. Glenn would be my witness it was justifiable homicide.

  At that moment, though, I was more concerned about Glenn shooting me.

  “You know you should have filled me in on the information you had about George,” Glenn said. “The phone records, the book containing the information about who he was blackmailing, everything. It’s not your job to gallop off and face the bad guys alone like it’s high noon. Who the hell do you think you are, Gary fucking Cooper?”

  I took a bite of a doughnut. I took the fact the doughnuts were my favorite jelly filled as tacit approval by Glenn of my actions despite his words to the contrary. But, I wished Glenn had brought some of that high-priced coffee from Astor City Coffee as well. I washed the doughnut down with my own office brewed coffee. It was not as good as the stuff from Astor City Coffee. But, as they say, any port in a storm.

  “If I had turned that stuff over to you, you would have found out who my client was,” I said with a shrug. “I told her I would keep her identity confidential.”

  “And you always do what you say you’re going to do,” Glenn said with a half-snort.

  I shrugged again. I was getting good at it with all the practice.

  “I try to,” I said.

  Glenn glared at me. Then, his gaze softened a bit.

  “Yeah, I guess you do,” he said. “But, what if Lady Justice had killed you? She would have been doing the rest of us a favor, but she would have gotten away with her murders scot-free.”

  “I’m way ahead of you,” I said. I pulled a sealed thick manila envelope addressed to Glenn out of my desk. I tossed it over to Glenn who plucked it out of the air.

  Glenn glanced down at the envelope.

  “What’s this?” he asked. “A series of love letters to me?”

  “You should be so lucky,” I said. “It’s a letter I wrote before I went to confront Lady Justice which details everything I knew and suspected about what she had done. Included in the envelope are copies of the documents I had gotten out of George’s place. My lawyer has a copy of it all, too. If things had gone sideways and I did not survive my confrontation with Lady Justice, I wanted to make sure you would be able to make a case against her.”

  Glenn grunted. He put the envelope on my desk.

  “You still should have come to the police instead of confronting Lady Justice by yourself,” he said sourly.

  “How long do you think I’d be able to continue to do what I do if I run to the police every time I encounter a problem?” I asked.

  Glenn grunted again.

  “Not long, I would imagine,” he said reluctantly. He jabbed a stubby finger in my direction. “I still think you enjoy playing cowboy, though. Remember this: the next time you withhold evidence from me, I will personally arrest you for obstruction of justice and any other charge I can come up with. I might accidentally on purpose pop a cap in your ass on the way to the station, too.”

  “Oh you silver-tongued devil, you,” I said. “No wonder all the girls swoon over you.”

  I took another sip of coffee. It was a little bitter. Maybe I could leverage my newfound fame into a free supply of Astor City Coffee grounds. I bet the remaining Sentinels drank Astor City Coffee every day.

  “How’s the investigation into Doppelgänger going?” I asked. “Any indication he knew what Lady Justice was up to when she had him impersonate her the night George died?”

  Glenn shrugged. Apparently there was a lot of it going around.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” he said. “Since it involves a licensed Hero, the Heroes’ Guild said they had jurisdiction over the investigation, and the mayor backed them up. If the Heroes’ Guild is anything like you, it’s not going to fill me in on a damn thing.”

  Glenn stood up to leave. Though he shook his head in disgust, he left the remaining doughnuts behind. It showed a real generosity of spirit. I would not have been so generous had the situation been reversed, especially not when jelly filled doughnuts were involved.

  Glenn gently closed the door behind himself when he left. It was a nice change of pace. Maybe that was how you distinguished the good guys from the bad guys: the good guys closed doors behind themselves. It was as good a rule of thumb as any.

  I spent the afternoon fielding some calls on my office phone. Most of the calls were from the press and curiosity seekers. One call from a potential client was interesting, though. A distraught mother called to tell me about her missing daughter. I was about to refer her to the missing persons department of the police when she told me her daughter was a Metahuman. Apparently, the daughter had the power to make her body explode. I made an appointment to meet with the mother the next day.

  After a while, I got sick of the telephone ringing. I forwarded the calls to voicemail.

  Sweet silence finally filled the room. I looked around my office with satisfaction. It was not much, but I was the master of all I surveyed. How many others could say that? Who could ask for anything more?

  I spun around in my chair. I put my feet up on the windowsill. I looked out the window. It was snowing heavily outside. It was the first snow of the year. Nothing had been shoveled yet. The world appeared to be pure, fresh, and clean. I knew that to not actually be the case. There was a lot of dirt hidden under the pristine whiteness.

  But, for now, the appearance was enough.

  The End

  If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review on Amazon. Even a simple two word review such as “Loved it” helps so much. Reviews are a big aid in helping readers like you find books they might like.

  The other books in the Superhero Detective Series about Truman Lord can be found here:

  THE MISSING EXPLODING GIRL

  KILLSHOT

  HUNTED

  Additionally, Mr. Brasher has begun another superhero series set in the same fictional world as Truman’s where Metahumans must become licensed Heroes to legally use their powers. Called the Omega Superhero Series, this series features Metas more powerful than those who appear in the Superhero Detective Series. The first in the series is CAPED, which tells the origin story of Theodore Conley, a seventeen-year-old who wrestles with his newfound powers. An excerpt from Caped is below.

  Additional superhero novels will be published soon. Click on the link below to sign up for Mr. Brasher’s e-mail newsletter for information on these new books and bonuses given exclusively to newsletter subscribers:

  DARIUS BRASHER’S NEWSLETTER

  Follow Darius Brasher on Twitter at www.twitter.com/dariusbrasher or feel free to drop him a line at darius.brasher@dbrasher.com.

  Turn the page for an excerpt from The Missing Exploding Girl, Book Two of the Superhero Detective Series and an excerpt from Caped, Book One of the Omega Superhero Series.

  EXCERPT FROM THE MISSING EXPLODING GIRL

  “She’s a goddamned filthy supervillain,” John Barton said. “She had better not darken the door of
this house again.”

  “She’s our daughter,” Meghan Barton protested. She wrung her bony hands anxiously. “You shouldn’t talk about her like that. And, you know better than to take the Lord’s name in vain.”

  Mr. Barton turned a bit on the sofa and thrust his face into his wife’s.

  “This is my goddamned house, and I’ll say what I goddamned please in my own goddamned house,” he snarled at her. Mr. Barton cursed with the relish and air of being naughty of a little kid who had just learned a bad word.

  I had not been talking to the Bartons for long, but I had already developed an enthusiastic distaste for Mr. Barton. I did not like how he spoke to his wife, how he talked about his daughter, or how he talked about us Metahumans. He talked about us like we had been spawned by the Devil himself. According to the Bartons’ religious beliefs, perhaps we had been. But, I did not feel like Devil-spawn. My business card definitely did not read “Truman Lord, Private Detective, Superhero, and Devil-Spawn. Special rates reserved for Satanists.”

  I was tempted to tell Mr. Barton I was not Devil-spawn via a right cross to his jaw. But, if I went around punching potential clients, pretty soon I would not have any potential clients. Then, I’d have to shutter my private detective business and find another way to earn eating and ammunition money. Perhaps I could go door to door solving crimes and battling supervillains. Then my business card could read, “Truman Lord: Have gun and superpowers, will travel.”

  We were sitting in the Bartons’ home. The Bartons were on their couch in the living room. I was seated across from them in a wooden rocking chair. The house was located in a lower middle-class suburb on the outskirts of Astor City. The house was about a thirty minute drive from my downtown office. From what I had seen of it, the small home was comfortably if somewhat inexpensively furnished, like someone had decorated it on a strict budget. The furnishings had seen better days. Since I was seated across from a Metahuman hater, so had I.

  Mrs. Barton had called me days before and asked me to come to their house to talk about their missing thirteen-year-old daughter Clara. At the time Mrs. Barton had called me, Clara had been missing almost two weeks. In the time between us making the appointment and me showing up at the Barton home days later, the explosion in the subway in Washington, D.C. had occurred. Once I arrived at the Bartons’ home, it was clear Mrs. Barton had made the appointment with me without telling her husband. From the way he talked about Clara, it sounded like he would be perfectly happy for Clara to stay missing.

  Mr. Barton worked as a foreman in a local factory. He had a big frame with a lot of flesh on it. Some of that flesh was muscle, but much of it was not. He looked like a former high school football player who might have had some glory days on the gridiron once upon a time. Those days were long gone, though. His skin was pale white. He had blotches of red on his face, like a far less jolly Santa Claus. His brown hair was crew cut, exposing the back of his neck. Excess neck flesh rested on the collar of his shirt, making his big head look bulbous, like a circumcised penis. His thick forearms were covered with wiry dark hair. Though he lived in a lower middle-class neighborhood, his voice betrayed his lower class origins. It still had the slight sound of the gutter in it.

  “You’ve seen the same news footage I have,” he was saying to his wife. “That was Clara on the surveillance cameras. And, it was Clara that blew up, killing and injuring all those people.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Mrs. Barton insisted weakly. It did not sound like even she believed what she was saying. “Not even the government knows what caused the explosion. They can’t find evidence of a bomb.”

  “They can’t find evidence of a bomb because there was no bomb. Clara did this. You know it just as well as I do. You just don’t want to admit it,” Mr. Barton said. He shook his head. “She’s no good, I tell you. None of those Metahuman filth are. I can’t take dealing with her anymore. This is the last straw. As far as I’m concerned, that little bitch is no daughter of mine.”

  Mrs. Barton continued to wring her hands. Her eyes were red. It looked like she was about to cry and, if she had, that it would not be the first time that day. She was a thin woman with a pinched face. Her body was not a toned thin, but rather a skinny-fat thin. She had on faded red Capri pants, a short-sleeved collared shirt, and black flats. A thin gold chain from which hung a small cross hung around her neck. Worry and frown lines were etched deeply into her forehead and around her mouth. She looked much older than she probably was. I could hardly blame her. Living with Mr. Barton would prematurely age me as well. I didn’t know if Clara had run away from home, but if she had, I could hardly blame her.

  I considered using my powers of hydrokinesis—water manipulation—to make Mr. Barton’s head explode. No, too messy. I could instead simply pull my gun out of my hip holster and shoot him.

  “I’m a Metahuman,” I said. “Am I no good filth, too?” There was a tone of warning in my voice. I did not enjoy being called names. Since I was a shade over six feet two inches tall and was a muscular guy with cauliflower ears and a flattened nose, most people had the good sense to not call me names to my face.

  Mr. Barton looked over at me like he had forgotten I was there. His eyes darted over at his wife in an accusatory fashion—“Why did you invite a Metahuman into our home?” the look seemed to say—before they came back to me.

  “Look buddy, I mean no offense,” he said. Despite his words, it did not sound as if he cared whether or not I was offended. “Our faith teaches us that Metahumans are an abomination in the sight of the Lord.”

  I had learned once I arrived at their home that the Bartons were Jacobites, a Christian sect that believed Metahumans were not in fact human, but rather a subhuman scourge sent by God to punish man for his many sins. Some would say the Jacobites were a cult. Whether they were a religion or a cult was not for me to judge. In my mind, one man’s sensible religion was another man’s cult. It just depended on your perspective: if you were an outsider looking in, anything you did not believe in looked like a cult. To the Romans, the early Christians no doubt looked like members of a cult.

  Notwithstanding my progressive live-and-let-live attitude, if I had known the Bartons were Jacobites, I never would have agreed to drive out to meet with them. I would have been too afraid they would try to smite me, proselytize me, or both.

  “How nice for you,” I said in response to Mr. Barton’s nutty Metahuman beliefs. “Shouldn’t you speak more nicely about your daughter, though? After all, doesn’t Psalm 127 say ‘Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward’?” I was impressed I was able to pull that quote out of the recesses of my mind. Thirteen years of Catholic school had not been a waste. I should have had a tee shirt made that read, “Thirteen years of Catholic school, and all I got was this lousy Psalm quote.”

  Mr. Barton just set his jaw at my words and looked stubborn. Apparently, he was not as impressed with my Biblical knowledge as I was.

  Mrs. Barton’s thin fingers tugged on Mr. Barton’s shirt sleeve.

  “Mr. Lord is a private detective and a licensed Hero. I read about him in the news,” she said. I had recently solved a murder that had been widely reported about. As a result, I had been getting more media attention lately than Kim Kardashian. Perhaps I should have taken advantage of my newfound fame and launched a perfume line or come out with a book of selfies or made a sex tape.

  “That’s why I asked him here,” Mrs. Barton said. “If anyone can find Clara and return her to us, he can.”

  Mr. Barton continued to look stubborn.

  “I told you, I wash my hands of that little Meta bitch,” he said to her. He turned to me. He looked me up and down. I was dressed that day in thick waterproof boots, jeans, and a heavy cotton red and black plaid shirt. It was my Hero as lumberjack look.

  “If you’re a licensed Hero, where’s your costume? Where’s your mask?” Mr. Barton demanded.

  “My dog ate my costume and then took a d
ump in the mask,” I said. In truth, I had neither a dog nor a costume. I was one of the rare Heroes who did not hide his identity. But, I did not feel like explaining that to Mr. Barton. I disliked him more with each passing minute.

  Mr. Barton blinked at my response. It confused him. I suspected a lot of things confused him. But, he soon rallied.

  “Since you came all this way, I guess I can at least listen to your sales pitch,” he said. “Why should I hire you?”

  I shook my head. My patience for Mr. Barton’s attitude had worn threadbare.

  “I don’t have a sales pitch,” I said. “I just came out here to bask in your charm. It’s everything I’ve heard of and hoped for. You should go to work at the United Nations. You’ll have charmed everyone into declaring world peace inside of a week, easy.”

  Mr. Barton gave me a hard look. Perhaps it worked on his wife and the people who worked under him. I, however, managed to stand up under it without passing out in fear.

  “You being smart with me?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  Mr. Barton blinked at me again. My answer caught him off guard. I did not think he was used to dealing with someone who did not recoil in fear when he was trying to be firm and intimidating.

  “How much do you charge?” he asked. He was shifting the subject to something he felt comfortable talking about, money.

  “To work for you?” I asked.

  Mr. Barton nodded impatiently.

  “Well,” I said, “I normally work for a few hundred dollars a day plus expenses. But, once I factor in the ‘you’re a pain in the ass’ surcharge, the total comes to . . . .”

  I looked up at the ceiling as if I was making a calculation. I looked back down at him.

  “Four billion, three million and thirty-seven dollars and twenty-six cents,” I said firmly. “And not a penny less.”