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  I picked up my cane and rushed to the garage, calling Moreen with my free hand.

  “Do you have anyone stationed outside Harris’s ex-wife’s apartment?” I asked when she picked up.

  “No. Why?”

  “I just talked to her on the phone. She said someone was trying to kill her, and the line cut off.”

  “What were you doing on the phone with Harris’s ex-wife?” she asked sharply.

  “Moreen, she could be dying right now.”

  Her voice grew muffled as she spoke to someone on her end. “Hold on. I’m sending over a team.”

  “I’ll meet them there.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I’m going to hang up on you now, Mo. Please don’t get angry.”

  “A little late for that,” she growled.

  I know, I know. I wasn’t being smart about this. But a woman was in danger and had asked for my help. It was the sort of thing that bypassed my brain and went straight to my gut. I had to get to her.

  “Irma.”

  The maid was standing in the hall. If I were a betting man, I’d have laid down money that she’d been eavesdropping, but I knew she didn’t mean anything sinister by it. If she had, she wouldn’t have let me catch her.

  “I have to go,” I said. “Can you take care of Elisa?”

  “Of course.”

  I took two steps toward the garage then stopped. “Darn it. Wait. I can’t leave her here.”

  Irma raised her eyebrows. “You want to bring her with you? To a place where a woman is probably being murdered?”

  “No, I—” I rubbed my face. “I saw Mr. Lucifer today. He said if I don’t get Val out of jail, he’s taking Elisa. If he comes while I’m gone…”

  “I’ll handle him,” she said simply.

  “Giordano’s with him. He can be even stronger than me under the right circumstances.”

  “But he doesn’t have unbreakable skin like you. A knife to the jugular will finish him off like anyone else.”

  I blinked.

  “You know Valentina doesn’t pay me just to vacuum,” she said. “Protecting Elisa is my job.”

  And Val wouldn’t have hired her if she wasn’t the best. “Right. Thank you. I mean it.”

  Irma nodded, and I hurried to the garage. I hated leaving Elisa like this, but she was safe for the moment, and Benita Herrera needed my help. If something went wrong, Irma and Eddy could handle it. Of course, the DSA could probably handle whatever was at Benita’s.

  But she’d asked me to help her.

  My Ferrari was still drivable after Elisa’s breakthrough, but I didn’t want the attention the damage would bring. Fortunately, my wife had a slight car fetish and pockets deep enough to indulge in it. We had two four-car garages, and both of them were full. I grabbed the keys for the Mustang and raced toward South Pointe. I just hoped I wasn’t already too late.

  Chapter 4

  Benita Herrera lived on the twelfth floor of a high-rise condominium, a modern-day princess in a tall, white tower. I parked the car and hurried toward the entrance. The afternoon heat pounded onto the asphalt, and the smell of chlorine from a nearby pool filled the air. The parking lot was nearly full, and I kept my eyes open for Benita or anyone who looked suspicious. But even if I hadn’t been paying attention, I couldn’t have missed the scene unfolding on the sidewalk.

  A man vomited into the tropical flowers planted along the building’s edge. Behind him, a crowd was gathered, panic coming off them in a way you didn’t have to be a telepath to notice. A woman’s voice shouted “Call 911! Call 911!” over and over again. People ran in and out of the building’s front doors. A girl sat down on the curb and started crying.

  I walked toward them, each stiff step growing slower. The shocked bystanders moved easily from my path and revealed what they were standing around. I sucked in air and turned away.

  Benita Herrera had jumped.

  I stepped back dizzily, wanting to get away from the crowd. Too late. I was too late, and probably had been from the moment her phone call cut off. The woman I’d come to save was a mess on the sidewalk, just a slop of flesh, leaking blood onto the shoes of the surrounding crowd. Her legs were shattered, shards of bone jutting out from the skin, the shape mangled and barely recognizable as human. And her head… Her family wouldn’t be able to identify her. It was completely smashed, bits of skull and brain matter splattered over several feet of white pavement. The tang of blood and stench of ruptured intestines reached my nose. I’d seen corpses before, but it didn’t stop the nausea. This woman had asked for my help.

  What now? There was no sign of the police or the DSA. Apparently, I’d beaten them here. Should I wait? Call Moreen?

  No. Every second counted. How long had Benita been dead? Her killer could still be in her room.

  I rushed into the lobby, passing a trembling receptionist on the phone with the police and groups of people looking worriedly out the windows. The elevators were easy to find. It was a tortuously long wait, but there was no question it was faster than the stairs.

  I half expected the elevator door would open and reveal the killer on his way down, but the twelfth floor seemed empty. A plaque on the wall mapped out the unit numbers, and I followed its direction to Benita’s. The hallway was painted light blue, the wallpaper border displaying a cheery pattern of seashells, ship anchors, and fish. It seemed out of place under the circumstances, like a person wearing bright yellow to a funeral.

  I raced forward, all my senses alert. The building was U-shaped, and only had one elevator, which made for a long walk to many of the rooms. But it meant the killer would have to come past me if he wanted to take the elevator.

  The sound of a door creaking slowly open came from around the corner. I paused, waiting for footsteps or voices, but none came.

  Almost like whoever had opened the door was listening for the same thing.

  I kept perfectly still. I barely breathed, and kept my head clear in case the person was a mind-reader. There were plenty of abilities I couldn’t hide from (super-hearing, for example, could pick up my heartbeat), but I did my best to conceal myself.

  My best wasn’t good enough. Muffled footsteps dashed off in the other direction, and I hurried forward just in time to see a door closing. Sure enough, it had Benita’s apartment number on it. Someone had just left.

  I rushed down the hall in an awkward, jerking gait, but it was no use. The movement set my knee on fire. I could push through the pain, but nothing I did could change that my knee just wouldn’t bend the way it should. Catching someone was impossible when I was limping like this. But that didn’t stop me from trying.

  I heard another door close with a bang and turned the corner to see the exit to the stairwell. I struggled toward it, but my every step was slow and pained. When I pushed the door open, I saw only plain white walls and empty stairs, and heard the clatter of heavy footsteps sprinting downward. It sounded like there might be more than one of them—or was it just an echo? I looked over the railing, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person or people, but they kept out of sight. A second later, I heard another door open and close, and the sound of footsteps stopped.

  It was over before it had even begun. I hobbled down the stairs, biting back a groan of pain with each step. I might as well have been a drunk tortoise pulling a trailer for all the speed I made. When I reached the eleventh floor, panting for breath, I pulled open the door. The hallway was empty and silent.

  Damn my knee! There’d been a time when nobody could’ve escaped me like that. What use was the strength to lift a car if a toddler could outrun me? I was old and broken and had retired for a good reason. Who did I think I was, trying to run down a murderer?

  I dragged my weary bones through the hallway to the elevator. When I got to the ground floor, I limped back to the stairwell and looked up, on the off chance the killer was using it to escape the building. No such luck.

  “Dave!”

  Moreen entered the lobby, flan
ked by suited agents.

  “I was too late,” I told her in a tired voice. “She was dead when I got here. I caught someone coming out of her room, but they got away.”

  Moreen put her obvious anger on hold. “Did you get a good look at them?”

  “No.”

  “Did you go into her apartment?”

  “No, I’m not that stupid.” Benita’s apartment was a murder scene, and I was a private citizen. My presence there could bring claims that I had tampered with evidence and potentially get anything the DSA found thrown out of court.

  “Could’ve fooled me,” Moreen snapped. “You drive me crazy, Dave. You don’t think. At this rate, even if you find the real killer, it’s going to be worthless in front of a judge because of the dozen laws you broke in the investigation.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t think Val is the real killer.”

  Moreen’s face became a cool mask. “Agent Clarke,” she said, causing the man to her right to stand up straighter. “This is David Del Toro. I want you to take down his account of what happened here. Be as long and tedious as you want.”

  I went with him, and the interview was as tiresome as promised. But it would help the DSA’s investigation to know everything I’d witnessed, so I answered with as much detail as I could and repeated myself every time Agent Clarke asked. When he was finished with me, he escorted me back to the lobby and told me to have a seat.

  “The director wants a word with you before you leave.”

  He left, and I sat down and buried my face in my hands.

  Moreen was right; I should have stayed home and left this to the DSA. I wasn’t cut out for this anymore, and because of my failure, Benita Herrera was dead. I’d broken the rules, and for what? The woman I’d tried to save had been murdered, and the man I’d interrogated was innocent. And even if Mental had been guilty, it would have been hard for the DSA to legally gather evidence after my actions. Val’s name would have been cleared, but Mental wouldn’t have been convicted. There wouldn’t have been justice. There might have been revenge if Val had anything to say about it, but Mental would have avoided prison time.

  And Benita… No, I couldn’t have stayed out of it, no matter what Moreen said. Benita had asked for my help. Yes, it was the DSA’s job, not mine, but saving a woman’s life was more important than technicalities.

  But I hadn’t saved her, so my argument was less than pointless. The sight of her corpse flashed before my closed eyes, and I wondered if I’d ever be able to forget it. I’d seen too many corpses in my lifetime. If only I hadn’t been so slow.

  My head was still bowed when I heard footsteps approach me. The lobby had been cleared of people unrelated to the crime scene, so I looked up, but it wasn’t Moreen.

  It was Freezefire.

  Miami’s resident superhero was in his late twenties, tall and lean, with longish black hair and copper skin. His suit looked like a black SWAT uniform, but trimmed with bright red and blue, his trademark double F symbol stamped clearly on the front of his bullet-proof vest.

  His back was stiff. “Dave.”

  “Julio.” I switched from English to Spanish without thinking. “Long time no see.”

  It had been four years, to be exact. He looked older, but not in a bad way. I could still remember him as a lanky teenager who was constantly slouching, but he had no trouble standing tall now, and it suited him. I almost smiled but stopped myself just in time, realizing how awkward this was about to get. We hadn’t spoken since my relationship with Val came to light four years ago. He was probably about to start shouting like Walter. Or would he spit on me? Try to deck me? I’d had it all happen at some point. (The guy who tried to deck me broke his hand on my face.) The best I could hope for was the silent treatment.

  “Are you supposed to be here?” he asked.

  “No. They called you in?”

  He gave a clipped nod. “Got here too late to do anything, though.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Unbidden, my mind flashed yet again to Benita’s body outside, to her blood on the pavement. What would have happened if I’d called her first instead of Clifton? Could I have gotten here in time? I knew better than to indulge in that kind of thinking, but the image of her shattered skull just wouldn’t leave my mind’s eye….

  “If you’re not authorized to be here, I’m going to have to escort you out.”

  His voice was flat and professional. I approved.

  “You’ll have to take that up with Moreen.” Childish of me, using her first name to remind him of my connections. “I’m supposed to wait here for her to chew me out personally.”

  “Right. Of course.” His mouth twisted, but he covered it instantly.

  I tore my thoughts from Benita’s murder and Val’s imprisonment, focusing on the man in front of me. He hadn’t moved from his spot a few feet away, like he planned to keep watch in case I trashed the lobby or something. Better to be paranoid than caught off guard. Nice to know at least one of my lessons had stuck with him.

  “So. How have you been?”

  I mentally kicked myself the moment the words left my lips.

  “It’s been four years, sir. I’ve been a lot of things.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I kept my mouth shut after that, and we waited in a silence that was anything but comfortable. I couldn’t keep from imagining the questions I’d have asked him if we were on better terms. The local news had run a story the other day on how he’d busted some of the Prophet King’s men. In the middle of an arms deal, too. It couldn’t have been easy. Then there was that police standoff in Allapattah last month. I hadn’t been able to find any details on the major news sites, so the DSA must be keeping a tight lid on whatever had happened. But whatever it was, there’d been no casualties, thanks to Julio. I read just about every news article I could find on Freezefire, and he never made me anything but proud.

  You’re probably thinking I sound like a stalker, and… you’re not exactly wrong. But Julio used to be my sidekick. I reserved the right to keep up with how he was doing, even if he hated me.

  “Why are you even here?” he asked suddenly.

  “I was on the phone with Benita when…”

  His mouth tightened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you two were close.”

  “We weren’t.”

  She and Harris had divorced not long after he and I first met. She couldn’t take the stress of his job—or at least, that’s what Harris had said one night after getting spectacularly drunk. How many years ago had that been? We’d been at White Lightning, back before word got out the place was a superhero bar and the press swarmed it. I’d brought Julio there plenty of times, except he’d been too young to drink legally and had to settle for soda. He used to give me this surly little glare when I stopped him from sneaking beer.

  “Shit,” said Julio. “You weren’t questioning her, were you?”

  I gave what I hoped was a noncommittal shrug.

  He groaned. “You’re interfering with the case. Director Lee’s going to castrate you.”

  “Lucky for me my equipment is nigh-indestructible, then.”

  He gave me a flat stare.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Guess my sense of humor hasn’t improved much, huh?”

  “Stop it, Dave. Don’t act like we’re still tight.”

  He spat out the words like bullets. I looked away.

  “If you wanted to talk, you had plenty of opportunity to look me up,” he said. “It’s been four years.”

  I searched his face for some sign of sarcasm. I must have been missing something. “You would have talked to me?”

  “I tried calling.”

  He had, but I’d avoided him. “I figured you’d be angry.”

  “I was, but I still wanted to talk.”

  This wasn’t how this conversation usually went. He was supposed to ask how many times I’d lied to his face when I was secretly rendezvousing with the Black Valentine. He should accuse me of be
traying the ideals White Knight stood for. I was prepared for that, not for him to call me out on shutting him out of my life.

  I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat. “I didn’t—”

  Julio’s head turned sharply, and I followed his gaze. Moreen strode toward us. And just like that, the conversation was over.

  “Take a walk, Freezefire,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He left, and I almost called after him, but hell if I knew what to say. I was a crappy excuse for a mentor, and it looked like Julio had figured that out a while ago.

  I turned to Moreen, bracing myself for her glare, but she just stared at me tiredly. When I’d seen her this morning, she’d looked… well, great. Now her face seemed to show every long, hard year.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “Suicide note.”

  I opened my mouth but then closed it again. I didn’t need to tell her how ridiculous that was. She wasn’t in the mood to listen, anyway.

  “This is the second time I’m warning you to stay out of this investigation.” Even her voice was burnt out. “You won’t get a third. I’ll just arrest you.”

  “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have known about her murderer.”

  “This isn’t your job anymore, Dave, and I’m done doing you favors. Don’t let me see you again.”

  It was a dismissal if I’d ever heard one. I walked out of the hotel, grateful (and a little surprised) she hadn’t had me arrested. It was a testament to how much we’d been through together that she hadn’t thrown me in a reinforced cell and tossed the key into the Atlantic. She and Harris were the only ones who’d stuck by me after the DSA discovered my relationship with Val, and I’d repaid her by going behind her back and jeopardizing her investigation. I’d have to apologize to her when this was all over. I’d owe her one—much more than one—since I couldn’t walk away from the investigation. Not while Val was still a suspect.

  My “investigation” was in a pretty sad state, though. Another murder, and what had I learned? Absolutely nothing. Why would someone kill Harris’s ex-wife? Revenge on Harris didn’t seem to fit; their divorce had been a nasty one. Although if the goal of Harris’s murder was to frame Val, another murder while she was in police custody wouldn’t help, which explained the attempt to make it look like suicide. But then why kill Benita in the first place? Had she known something?