“There were two of them,” she said in reply. “I don’t know if they were boyfriend and girlfriend, brother and sister, or what. Called themselves Trick and Treat.” She rolled her eyes. “They were pretty young—twenty-somethings, all skinny and pale. Both had black hair, but I think it was a dye job. Piercings and tattoos, and—well, you know the look. All black leather and fishnets and fingerless gloves. I don’t know how they stand it in this heat.”
I nodded, forming a mental image.
“They said they were telepaths and wanted to hire me. I was explaining the difference between mainstream success and appealing to an alternative demographic when they did it.”
She went silent, and though she was still looking at me, she wasn’t seeing me.
“There was nothing you could have done,” I said softly.
“I know. That’s the worst part.”
She shook her head like she was trying to physically dislodge the memory from her mind. “Right. Well, Harris wanted out.”
I started. “What?”
“That’s what they made me forget. Harris called me that evening. He said he couldn’t go through with it. Changed his mind and didn’t want to sell out and be famous. He sounded… I dunno, distracted. Jumpy. He promised to pay any outstanding fees he owed me, as if I’d let him get away with anything else. But it was a nice gesture, all the same.”
“Did he say what changed his mind?” I asked.
“No. I couldn’t get much out of him.”
This was something. I didn’t know what, but it was something. “Thank you,” I said.
She shook her head. “Thank me by taking them down. And listen… You want that crap they’re saying about you on the news to stop, I’ll get it done.”
“I…” I didn’t like the idea of paying someone to improve my reputation, but I also didn’t want to spurn her gratitude. “I’ll think about it, thank you.”
I waited until the ambulance came and saw her off. All the while, I kept thinking: what had caused Harris to change his mind so suddenly? It made sense in a way. Rejecting shallow fame was more in line with the Harris I knew. But then, why had he chosen to pursue it in the first place? Had it been Starla’s idea? Had he been so desperate to relive his glory days that he’d gone along with it? Then his conscience had finally gotten to him and… two random kids had killed him for it, wiped the evidence from Ruby’s mind, and framed Val? And then murdered Benita for some reason? It didn’t make sense. I was still missing something, but I knew how to find it. I needed to have a chat with Trick and Treat.
Before I did anything else, I sat down in my car and phoned Val.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey, yourself.”
Val’s telepathy had a maximum range of about a hundred feet, so she couldn’t read my mind over the phone. It annoyed her to no end.
“I know I said I was just going to see Harris’s publicist,” I started. “But I found a lead. I don’t think I’m going to be home for a while.”
I gave her the short version of what had happened.
“What are you going to do now?” she asked.
“Trick and Treat are psychic criminals. The DSA should have info on them.”
“And you think they’re just going to give it to you?”
“I have some friends there…” Or I used to, at least.
It was as if she could see me squirming in my seat from miles away. “That Lee woman is going to throw you in jail.”
“Not if she doesn’t find out about it.”
“Which would be breaking the law. Who’s going to do that for you, Dave?”
I floundered. Before today, I’d have said Julio might, but now…
“None of them will risk it,” she said. “They’re the good guys.”
“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” I almost yelled, and every muscle in my body was clenched tight. I didn’t dare move for fear of breaking the car.
Val sighed. “You’re still thinking like a superhero.”
My temper died down, but only because I was confused. “And that’s wrong?”
“Mostly, it’s charming,” she said. “Sometimes it’s annoying. But if you want to track down a criminal, you don’t go to the cops. What do they know? Go to other criminals.”
My eyes narrowed. I’d banged heads together to get info before, but somehow I didn't think that was what she had in mind.
“The two of them are illegal psychics operating in Miami,” she went on. “Jean-Baptiste will know where they are.”
“Yeah, but I doubt the biggest crime boss in the city is just going to tell me if I ask.”
“No, but he will if I ask him.”
I had to take a moment to admire the way my wife’s mind worked. Need to find someone? Well, let’s just waltz up to the most dangerous crime lord in the state and ask him. He’s an old friend.
“Are you sure you want to?” I asked. “I thought you were going to delegate revenge to your minions.”
“Yes, well, Jean-Baptiste is best dealt with in person, and…” She took a deep breath. “If you’re so determined to do this, then I should help.”
If only I could see her face. It might give me a clue what she was thinking.
“You don’t have to,” I said.
“I do. It’s my fault in the first place.”
“No, it’s not. You don’t have to get involved, and I’m not asking you to.”
“You never ask. It’s another one of your charming yet annoying qualities.”
I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel and considered it. It was a good idea. I wasn’t sure how I felt about asking a crime lord like Jean-Baptiste Dupree for help, but we were doing it to catch two other criminals. It was like an interrogation, only nicer and probably taking place over lunch. I wasn’t too worried about the danger to Val. She could handle herself, especially in a situation like this. In fact, she was probably the one who should be worried about me.
“All right,” I said. “It’s a date.”
“I’ll call Jean-Baptiste and arrange the meeting. Swing by the house and pick me up. We can go together.”
“Okay. But Val?”
“Yes, dear?”
“I’m driving.”
She laughed like she used to when she had stolen jewels in her getaway vehicle and I’d shout things like, “You’ll never get away with this!”
“We want to see him today, not get there next week,” she said.
“We want to get there without breaking every speed limit in existence before you crash the car.”
I could hear her rolling her eyes. This is where our daughter gets it.
“I’m driving,” I repeated.
• • •
Val drove.
Don’t you say a word.
The roads were too crowded for her to reach her usual breakneck speeds, but she did cut several people off, make a couple of illegal turns, and nearly mow down a pedestrian or two. My wife had never gotten a traffic ticket in her life. This was because any police officer who tried to ticket her suddenly found themselves with short-term memory loss.
We pulled up to a big resort right on the beach. It was an enormous white building lined with rows upon rows of hotel room windows. Bright blue pools were surrounded by lounge chairs covered in colorful beach towels, and the glittering ocean beckoned not far behind. Children ran laughing, carrying pool noodles and inflatable floats. Parents followed, some lathered in sunscreen, others surrendering to lobster-red. They all probably thought criminals were far off in the bad parts of town.
Val cruised right up to the front doors and handed the keys over to the valet. I did my best to keep up as she strode into the lobby like she owned the place. She wore a black dress suit with a neckline about an inch lower than professional, and had a heart-shaped brooch made out of rubies pinned to her chest.
We took the elevator to the twenty-first floor, where a maitre d’ stood guard in front of a formal dining area. The room sparkled, fr
om the glasses to the lights to the view of the sea and pools below. Soft music drifted out, along with the tinkling of silverware and laughter.
The maitre d’ welcomed us, his eyes lingering briefly on Val’s scar, and asked for our names.
“Valentina Belmonte. I believe Mr. Dupree is waiting.”
A slight tightening of the man’s shoulders betrayed his recognition of the crime lord’s name. “Right away. If you’ll follow me?”
He led us inside, past the chatting diners, and the skin on my back prickled uncomfortably. I surveyed the room with a casual glance. Almost half the people here had to be Jean-Baptiste’s men under cover, maybe more. Either he considered Val and me a serious threat, or he was this careful all the time.
He hasn’t gotten to where he is today by being unprepared, Val said in my in mind.
“Jean-Baptiste,” she said aloud. “It’s been far too long.”
He was sitting alone at a table far from the window, lounging like a tiger in his den. The Prophet King, they called him, for his clairvoyant visions that had helped him seize control of the Miami underworld. He was a man who just plain looked powerful, partly from his physical strength, but mostly from his confident manner. He had to be nearly my height and just as brawny, not to mention a good decade younger. His skin was a dark, rich brown, contrasting against his cream-colored suit and unseeing milky white eyes. At the sound of Val’s voice, he turned to face us.
“Valentina. Always a pleasure.”
“Thank you for meeting with us,” Val said. “I don’t think you know my husband, David?”
“He’s disrupted some of my business ventures, but we’ve never had the pleasure of a personal meeting.”
He extended his hand, and I shook it, thinking what a photo op the news networks were missing. “White Knight’s Secret Deal with the Prophet King.” The headlines practically wrote themselves.
Jean-Baptiste’s grip was strong, and I resisted the urge to crush his hand to prove my dominance. Then we all sat down nicely and ordered lunch.
“I spoke with your sister the other day,” Jean-Baptiste said conversationally.
“Oh?” said Val. “Which one?”
“Lady Nightmare. She was bidding on a gun shipment I have coming up from the Caribbean.”
“That’s going to end messily for whoever she’s angry at.”
“Some Mexican cartel interrupting her imports, I heard. You know how it is along the border.”
“Yes, and I’m happy to be retired so I don’t have to worry about things like that anymore. You should try it sometime, Jean-Baptiste. You’d like it.”
“Maybe someday.” He chuckled. “Business is just too good right now.”
The small talk turned to his two children and Elisa, and I wondered if this was what all supervillains did when they were together: have a nice chat about turf wars and then ask about the kids. I didn’t live what you’d call an average life, but even for me, this was surreal. I wanted to interrupt and say, “I’m sitting right here. White Knight, former superhero. And you’re talking about your smuggling plans.” I could tip off the DSA. I had no details about location or time, and I wasn’t exactly in the agency’s good graces right now, but still. The sheer arrogance made me angry.
“But you came here on business, not pleasure,” said Jean-Baptiste. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have brought your husband.”
He smiled, smooth as can be, and his teeth were as white as his eyes.
“David, why don’t you explain?” said Val.
“We’re looking for two telepaths,” I said. “Male and female, go by the names Trick and Treat.”
Jean-Baptiste reached for his wine glass. His hand took a moment to locate it on the table.
“Assuming I know anything about them,” he said. “Why are you asking?”
“They psy-assaulted a woman. She had memories that would’ve helped Supersonic’s murder investigation, and they rewrote them. They’re probably the ones who killed Supersonic.”
He sipped the wine, swirling it around in his mouth like a connoisseur before swallowing. “And you want me to turn them in like a good little citizen?”
“Yes.”
Jean-Baptiste turned his head toward Val. “Why on earth would I do that?”
“Because whoever killed Supersonic drew a big fat heart on his cheek in black lipstick, pointing the DSA right at me,” she answered. “I spent a day drugged up in interrogation, and I’d like to pay back whoever framed me for their kindness.”
Jean-Baptiste didn’t reply—at least not out loud. The two of them faced each other silently, but I knew the way Val’s forehead wrinkled when she was having a telepathic conversation. They were shutting me out.
I grabbed a piece of garlic bread from the basket in the middle of the table and chomped down on it, pretending what they were doing wasn’t rude. I hoped Jean-Baptiste was the one who’d initiated it, and Val was just going along for expedience’s sake. Because if she’d deliberately made the decision to exclude me….
“Fine,” Jean-Baptiste said.
I looked from his statue-like expression to Val’s serene one. The crime lord’s shoulders sagged as he turned to me.
“What’s it like being married to her?” he asked. “Can you ever tell her no?”
“I’m working on it,” I answered.
He shook his head, but he was grinning.
“Trick and Treat are regulars at a BDSM club downtown called Purgatory,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re there tonight.”
I nodded, realized he couldn’t see the gesture, and said, “Thank you.”
“Not doing it for you.”
The corner of Val’s lips turned up in a smile. “Thank you,” she repeated.
Jean-Baptiste leaned back in his chair and adjusted his tie. “Well, I can’t say I—”
He stopped, staring unseeingly ahead.
I sent Val a questioning thought. Was he having one of his visions?
An image of his electronic earpiece popped up in my head as her reply.
The whole exchange took no longer than a second. Human thought is fast. Once you got past the idea that you had to think in words, telepathy became the most efficient form of communication imaginable.
“DSA agents are surrounding the building,” said Jean-Baptiste. “And I would know if they were here for me.”
Val and I shared a glance.
“No,” I said. “They released you. Why take you back now?”
“I doubt there’s a third supervillain in this building,” she replied.
Every second was precious, and we all knew it.
“What do you want to do?” she asked me.
“It’s your decision.” But I knew what she was really asking: if she ran from the law, would I follow? Could she count on my support?
The DSA was wrong about Val. But plenty of people thought the law was wrong about plenty of things; that didn’t mean they had the right to break it. I was a former superhero, sworn to uphold the law—they called me White Knight, for crying out loud. I’d always done the right thing.
Except when it came to Val. I’d do anything for her.
“I don’t like this,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Come.” Jean-Baptiste rose to his feet. “There’s a maintenance elevator down the hallway. It’s not on the building’s blueprints; they shouldn’t know about it. Amala—”
A woman eating at the table next to us took him by the arm and handed him a white cane. She led us toward the exit, while several other diners—all muscled men in suits—rose in unison around the room.
“Thank you,” Val said.
“You are my guest,” Jean-Baptiste replied, as if that was all that mattered.
I immediately fell behind—my knee, mostly, but the effects of Giordano’s beating didn’t help. Every uneven step cost time, and when Val hung back to wait for me, I wanted to hit something. We couldn’t afford to slow down like this. Jean-Baptiste’s m
en carved a path through the tourists in the hallway, and I trailed behind like a gimp donkey following a herd of stallions.
“Can you get a read on them?” I asked Val.
“Still too far,” she said.
What was the DSA doing here? This was a public place, and Val was a highly dangerous supervillain. The DSA wouldn’t risk something with the potential to go so terribly wrong unless there was a very good reason they needed Val in custody now. Had even more evidence turned up that pointed to her? Or was someone else dead?
Jean-Baptiste’s men opened a door at the end of the hall that read “Staff Only.” The maintenance elevator couldn’t be far beyond. But my knee was seizing up, sending flares of white-hot pain up my leg with every step. I favored my good knee more and more, lagging behind even further. Jean-Baptiste and his men were already through the door. Val stayed with me. How far away were the DSA agents? Could we possibly make it out of the building before they got here?
I grimaced at the thought of Moreen catching us. No wonder she hadn’t answered my call this morning.
“Go ahead with them,” I told Val.
“Don’t be stupid,” she answered.
“They’re not after me.”
“You don’t know—”
She jerked to a halt, and I nearly ran into her. I nearly bowled her over. I could have broken her. My entire body went rigid as I realized what I’d almost done.
Val didn’t notice. Her lips were parted in silent surprise.
She stared straight ahead, and her brows lowered in concentration. Her breaths grew slow and heavy, and after a few moments, spots of color appeared on her cheeks. I put my free arm around her, supporting her as she swayed. My heart was racing. I didn’t dare ask what was happening for fear I’d break her concentration. But whatever it was, she didn’t look like she was faring well.
She moaned and leaned against me, coming back to herself.
“Talk to me,” I said softly.
She put a hand on my chest and tried to push herself up, but only staggered back into me.
“They'retelepaths…” Her words slurred together. They pinpointed us.
Her presence in my mind felt like she was filling my skull with glue. She was out of it, almost gone.
It wasn’t impossible to hide from a mind-reader. They called it broadcasting psychic static, but the art of letting your mind drift aimlessly when you knew someone was looking was a difficult one. We hadn’t even thought to try.
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