by Stone, Naomi
Something seemed askew lately. She smelled less trouble in the air, fewer of the energies she craved and those interfering old busybodies had done something to cause it. She didn’t know what as yet, but she’d find out.
* * * *
Kathleen Pedersen cursed the need to hasten alone through the city streets so late at night, even in as tame a neighborhood as Nicollet Mall outside Orchestra Hall. With no events scheduled, the plaza seemed eerily deserted despite the glow from the glass-walled building. The shadows seemed alive. Probably only the shifting leaves of the trees in planters among the pools and fountains.
She shuddered at a prickling sensation in her calves and hurried her steps. She clutched a canister of pepper spray in her jacket pocket, though no one was near to threaten her.
Why did Ms. Ellis insist on these midnight meetings? Yes, their business of brokering the sale of stolen research was illegal, but it would look a lot less suspicious if anyone she knew saw them having coffee during regular business hours at a downtown café.
When she spotted Ms. Ellis seated on a ledge beside one of the shadowed, half-hidden inner pools of the garden plaza, Kathleen drew a relieved breath.
“There you are.” She tried to inject a bright, casual tone to her voice, but the effort only bared her relief.
Ms. Ellis smiled the close-lipped smile that always struck Kathleen as too satisfied, the kind of smile giving rise to clichés like ‘the cat who ate the canary.’
“Good evening,” Miss Ellis greeted her, and without any other preliminaries proceeded to business. “Why did you request this meeting?” Her smile widened, as if she drank in the waves of anxiety Kathleen must surely radiate as the unavoidable byproduct of her mission.
“There’s been an... accident,” Kathleen admitted, then went on to explain.
* * * *
Another day, another $116.60, after deductions. Gloria stowed her patchwork suede and leather bag in her drawer, turned on the computer and pulled her chair up to the desk. Seven twenty-nine, according to the computer’s task bar. Early. Of course, Jo usually started at six and left at three to avoid the worst of rush hour traffic.
Gloria picked up her phone and punched in Jo’s extension, wanting to compare notes on the news coverage of yesterday’s lunchtime adventure. The phone rang unanswered until Jo’s voicemail message kicked in. Rats.
“Hi, it’s Gloria. Call me when you get this.” Darn. Guess she’d have to concentrate on work for a while. First, get the coffee started.
By ten o’clock Gloria had squared away Mr. Carlson’s scheduling and correspondence and written up the changes to the procedures document he’d given her over coffee at their morning check-in meeting. As she turned to check her own messages, it struck her she’d not yet heard back from Jo. She frowned, finger tapping the back of her mouse. This wasn’t like Jo. Maybe her friend was having one of those mornings, driving other things from her mind. Gloria turned to her phone and punched in Jo’s extension only to get voicemail again.
Her uneasiness deepened. Maybe Jo was too swamped with work to check her messages. Things were quiet here in R&D today. She’d caught up with her own tasks. Maybe Jo needed some help, a friend to lighten her workload somehow. Gloria certainly knew how to file papers and input data with the best of them. Time to visit HR.
“Hi.” Gloria greeted Mary when she reached HR’s reception desk. “I’d like to go back and see Jo.” She waved at the door dividing the reception area from the main block of offices and workstations.
Mary, a pleasantly plump woman with wavy brown hair, kind eyes and a ready smile, turned to her with an uncharacteristically furrowed brow. “I’m sorry. I got a call from Jo this morning, saying she won’t be in. She sounded bad. Said she’s sick.”
“Well, dang.” Gloria bit her lower lip. She’d seemed fine yesterday. Whatever it was had hit awfully fast. Maybe some twenty-four hour bug. “I’m sorry to hear it. Did she say what it was?”
Mary leaned over the barrier of the reception desk. “No, but it sounded like a bad cold. Her voice was so hoarse you’d hardly recognize it. I told her to drink some hot tea with honey. That’s just the thing for a bad throat.”
Gloria tsked. “Well I hope it’s not too bad. I’ll have to give her a call at home.” She smiled to Mary. “Thanks for letting me know.”
“You betcha.” Mary brightened visibly. “You say ‘hi’ to her from me too.”
“You got it.” Gloria spoke over her shoulder, already heading back to the elevators.
* * * *
After a restless night, Greg pulled on slacks and his favorite t-shirt reading, There are 10 kinds of people in the world: those who understand binary and those who don’t. As soon as he’d finished in the bathroom and had a mug of coffee in hand, he booted up his computer.
If he walked into some precinct police station, he’d be certain to waste hours talking to underlings without authority to make the kind of decision he needed in order to work with the police. They might even try to detain him, unmask him. He couldn’t have that. It would spoil everything before he’d barely gotten started.
No. He’d go straight to the top. Greg found the city’s website and hesitated with the cursor hovering between directory headings. The top. Hmm. Mayor or chief of police? This involved police business, but the mayor would have the clout to apply the kind of outside-the-box solution the situation demanded.
Wonder Guy acted in a special capacity. If he let the police treat him like plain old Greg Roberts, it would reduce his effectiveness. Who would be most likely to recognize the fact and back him up on it?
For the first time in his life, he regretted not paying more attention to local politics. At least, to politics outside the Computing Department and his online games. The internal battles to control the direction of Multi User Dungeon campaigns involved all the mudslinging and backbiting of a presidential election. Point being, he knew nothing about either of these men. Time for some Google-fu.
An hour later, he’d learned the mayor and chief of police were both new to office as of last fall. Mayor Jennings had been elected by a close margin on his promise to restore social services slashed by a budget-obsessed predecessor. But, in office for only half a year, Jennings had yet to establish a record of consistent follow-through on his promises.
Police Chief Levinson, while new to his title, had a long record with the Minneapolis police force, starting thirty years ago as a patrolman. He’d spent five years between traffic, vice and narcotics before making detective, and steadily worked his way up the ranks through positions of increasing authority and responsibility. From what Greg had found, his record looked good. No citations for discipline problems or use of excessive force, anyhow.
Growing up with Aggie, Greg had heard her stories of police raids on the commune. She still spoke disdainfully of their ignorance in mistaking a pee pot for a component intended to make bombs. She also spoke bitterly about a cop who’d shoved her twelve-year old self around and smashed a beloved guitar in the–vain–search for drugs.
Levinson’s bio, however, made him a family man with two grown children, listed no political affiliations, but several awards and commendations earned early in his career.
Greg pushed away from the computer desk sharing what space in his tiny bedroom wasn’t taken up by his queen-sized bed. The sound of somebody’s lawn mower growled through the open window from a few houses down the block.
Logically, he saw no reason to prefer one man over the other. Except, Levinson’s background must have given him experience dealing in practical ways with unpredictable situations. A politician might be better at negotiating the human element, but Levinson must have some political acumen too, to have achieved his position. Heck, he might have to deal with both men before this was over.
Greg rubbed his eyes, turning back to the computer screen. So, where would he find Chief Levinson this morning? City Hall? He started searching for a blueprint.
* * * *
Bac
k at her desk, Gloria used her cell phone to speed dial Jo’s home number. She leaned back in her chair, gently swiveling side-to-side, fiddling with a pen as Jo’s phone rang, two, three, four times. When the answering machine kicked in, Gloria opened her mouth to leave a sympathetic message and offer to visit after work.
“Hello. Who’s calling please?” A man answered, voice brusque and deep.
“Is Jo there?” Gloria asked, hesitant. Jo hadn’t mentioned seeing anyone lately. “Tell her it’s Gloria.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m Detective Algerson, Minneapolis P.D. May I ask when you last saw Ms. Willard?”
What the hell. “What? Where’s Jo?” Gloria stilled her chair and dropped her pen. “What’s going on? Is this some kind of joke? How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
“No, ma’am. I am not joking. If you’ve seen Joanne Willard in the past twenty-four hours, we’ll need to interview you. May I ask where you’re calling from?”
“Why do you need to talk to me? Where’s Jo?” She had an awful feeling.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Ms. Willard’s body was recovered early this morning.”
Gloria missed whatever he said next. Her heart dropped, plummeting below foot level and into a pit, as if a chasm opened suddenly below her. Her mouth went dry. The office around her faded into invisibility. Oh God.
The detective continued speaking. “We’re trying to establish her whereabouts over the past day. When did you see her last?”
“No. She can’t be dead. I just saw her yesterday. We were supposed to have lunch today.” This wasn’t real. It wasn’t possible. It had to be some ghastly mistake they’d laugh about later. When everything was all right again.
“At what time did you see her yesterday?” The man’s tone conveyed a kind of bored patience.
Gloria felt numb, as if broken loose from the world around her and floating at a distance, but she heard herself answer, “We got lunch together in Uptown. At the parade, on the news, where an elephant went out of control. Maybe they caught her in some of the footage. I drove us back to the office and didn’t see her again before I left for the day.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I or somebody on my team will come speak to you later for a more complete statement and ask you to answer a few more questions.”
“Wait.” Gloria’s thoughts caught up to her. “What happened to her? Where did you find her? She’s–she was my friend.”
“I’m sorry. We can’t discuss any details yet. This is an ongoing investigation.” The line cut off.
Investigation? Did this mean they suspected foul play? They wouldn’t ask her when she’d last seen Jo if she’d been killed in an auto collision, or died of a brain aneurysm or heart attack would they? Gloria clutched the arms of her chair until her fingers ached, fighting against the sucking pit of emptiness in her gut. Her head spun. She shook it, trying to think clearly. This just couldn’t be happening.
* * * *
“Miss Willard dead?” Mr. Carlson’s raised brows furrowed his forehead right up to where his hairline had once begun. “Why. I’ve met her, haven’t I? Young lady from HR?” He scowled down at his desk. “Dreadful business. The police suspect some foul play?”
Gloria nodded, not trusting herself to speak again. She supposed her eyes had to be red-rimmed and puffy. She hated to impart the news to the older man whose air of gentle abstraction made him seem oddly out of place in his position as the department head. Luckily, he had the acumen to delegate most practical matters to department sub-heads Kathleen Pederson and Don Blake.
“You’d better take the afternoon to tell the police whatever they need to know–and take some time for yourself.” He gave her a smile clearly intended to convey comfort and understanding, but clearly also saying, don’t involve me in this. “I know she was a friend of yours.”
“Thank you,” Gloria managed a shaky return smile. Turning away, she headed back to her desk to collect her bag and sweater. She’d talk to the police all right. She’d answer their questions and dig for answers to a few questions of her own.
Chapter 9
Minneapolis Police Chief Paul Levinson had ascribed recent reports of costumed superheroes in town to publicity stunts. Until he looked up from his desk at a sound–not the usual coos or rustlings of the pigeons–in time to observe a human figure fly up to his window. He peered closely. No sign of wires, harness, any kind of mechanical support. Making a conscious effort to keep his jaw from dropping, Levinson reassessed the news reports, and his previous beliefs concerning the workings of physical reality. The flying man maneuvered in mid-air, pried open the sash and stepped over the broad red sandstone blocks of the sill into the office.
Levinson scowled at the intruder. “You’re supposed to call first, make an appointment with my secretary.”
The man in the golden mask quirked one corner of his mouth as he grinned, glancing around the office. “I anticipated trouble getting anyone to put me through.” The man’s tone revealed wry good humor.
Levinson removed his hand from the button meant to summon his–armed–secretary to the office.
“You’re the one on the news last night.” He leaned across his desk, the only thing keeping him from grabbing the intruder by the collar, making his words an accusation.
“Right.” The costumed man crossed his arms over the large ‘W’ on his chest. “They said you folks, the police, wanted to talk to me.”
“Happens we do, or you’d be in even more trouble right now. I don’t care who you are, Joe Schmo or Wonder Guy–that’s what they’re calling you? You don’t come busting into the office of the chief of police without an appointment.”
“No sir.” The masked man dropped his arms to his sides. “I don’t mean any disrespect. It just happened I was in a position to help out with a few situations over the past couple days.”
“It just happened?” Levinson snapped, rising to his feet, bracing his hands on the desk. “Things don’t ‘just happen,’ Mr. Whoever-you-are. I believe in choices and responsibility, cause and effect.”
“Sir, normally I’d be the first to agree with you, but–”
“You think because you can fly, you’ve got the right to crash into somebody’s office, crash your way into somebody’s house?” Levinson pressed on. Keep the other guy off balance. Accept no excuses.
“No sir. And I didn’t crash. I opened the window first this time. I crashed into that house over by–”
“You think superpowers give you the right to ignore good manners? Maybe you think you’re above the law?” No way superpowers exceed my authority.
“No, I–”
“So, why didn’t you stick around to give a witness statement?”
“I need to protect my identity. I want to use these powers to help the people of Minneapolis. If we can come to an understanding–”
“An understanding, eh?” Levinson eased back into his chair, steepling his hands before him. “What sort of understanding do you have in mind?” And now to the point.
“You’ve heard of Batman, right?”
“Right.” No need to mention the size of the comic book collection he’d amassed as a teen and still preserved in plastic slipcovers on shelves in the attic. “So you’d like to keep your identity a secret, is that right?” It fit the costume, and if this guy was the real deal, he’d be a fool not to take advantage, but how would it play with City Hall?
“Yes sir. Unless you want to hear the story of my origins on another planet in another plane of existence.” The lips below the mask quirked again.
“Why should the Minneapolis Police Department make an exception for you? Why shouldn’t you follow the same rules everybody else has to follow?” Give me something I can take to the councilmen.
“Sir, I believe in doing the right thing and that usually means following the law.”
Levinson had a few reactions to that ‘usually’ but let it ride.
“But I can be a lot more helpful to the police and the peopl
e of Minneapolis if I can keep my identity a secret. I wouldn’t want to endanger my–the people I care about if, in the course of fighting crime, I were to make enemies who might make them targets for revenge.”
“That’s understandable, and I don’t want innocent civilians endangered. But I can’t have anonymous vigilantes accountable to no one running rampant in my town either.”
“Batman got to keep his secret identity as far as the police of Gotham City were concerned, and they even had the bat signal to call him. And sir, would you rather have criminals get away with crimes I might be able to prevent?”
“Are you suggesting the Minneapolis Police Department can’t do its job in protecting the people of Minneapolis? No.” He held up a hand. “I know. It’s only too often the damage is done before we’re even called. If we had twice the manpower and there’d still be more than we could do.” In fact, his predecessor had lost the position of police chief because of the steady rise in crime rates in recent years. Not that anyone wanted to increase the department budget.
Levinson wasn’t a man to doubt his senses. He’d seen this guy flying, soaring unsupported up to the window. If there’d been any kind of wires or harnesses, he’d have seen them when the man came through the casement. “Would it satisfy you to reveal your identity to a couple of select individuals as your contacts on the force?”
Wonder Guy stepped back toward the window. “I’m sorry. No one can know. If I didn’t keep the secret I wouldn’t trust anyone else to keep it, and too much depends on it.”
Levinson reached out before the costumed man exited the same way he’d come. “Wait. I’ll tell you what.” The chief leaned further across the desk, “Save your stories about alien origins. I’ll instruct the officers handling your cases to list you as Wonder Guy and you can wear your mask and costume and a Viking helmet for all I care, while they take your witness statements. But,” his tone deepened to a warning growl, “if there’s any evidence you’re misusing the privilege we’ll revisit the whole issue.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t know how I got these powers or how long they’ll last but I want to make them count while they do.” Wonder Guy extended a gloved hand and they shook.
