Chapter Four
Breakthrough (noun, often attributive): in warfare, an offensive thrust that penetrates and carries beyond a defensive line, an
act or instance of breaking through an obstacle, a sudden advance especially in knowledge or technique. In modern usage, the
spontaneous display of superhuman powers, usually triggered by traumatic or life-threatening events, but sometimes in response to
extreme emotional states.
Webster’s Dictionary
* * *
I made the call through Shelly, and Fisher filled me in while we waited. A downstairs neighbor out on his balcony had heard a
noise, something like an explosion that took longer, and called 911. Mr. Moffat being a Person of Interest, when his neighbor gave
the address a flag went up with Fisher’s department. They arrived right after the patrolman sent to check it out.
The detective had me do a quick walk-through of the rest of the condo, but it looked like all the action had happened in the
living room and we were back there when Officer Wyatt swore and Artemis stepped in from the balcony.
A vampire, Artemis traveled as a cloud of mist nearly invisible in the open air. Vampires hadn’t really existed before the Event,
aside from a few sad, sick souls who believed themselves to be nosferatu. But then, godzillas hadn’t either.
“Detective Fisher,” I said. “Allow me to introduce Artemis. Artemis, Detective Ron Fisher.”
“Detective.” She nodded, looking him over as he did the same. Tall, pale, and model-thin, she dressed in a black leather catsuit
with lots of straps and buckles. A deep hood cast her face in shadow, and she wore a half-mask sculpted to suggest the sharp
planes of a skull. She also wore four guns—two in shoulder-holsters and one low on each hip. Standing next to her, I looked like
a schoolgirl playing superhero. She looked sexy and dangerous as hell.
“Pleased to meet you, Artemis.” Fisher extended his hand. “Astra tells me you can answer a question for us.”
She smiled thinly as they shook. “I do have a nose for blood. You want to identify a victim?”
“What will you need?”
“Was it a man?”
“Yes.”
“Let me see his razor.”
I waved Mr. Moffat’s shaving kit, giving her a cautious smile. “I got it.”
She accepted it without expression, and pulled out a twin-blade razor. Holding it to her nose, she inhaled thoughtfully.
“Well?” Phelps asked impatiently. Fisher winced, but Artemis just looked amused.
“He cut himself recently. Blood type A positive. Heavy meat-eater, likes to drink. Not in great shape, developing kidney
problems.”
Fisher laughed. “No need to show off, but how can you tell?”
“Blood type’s easy, his iron is really high, and his kidneys aren’t filtering his blood properly.”
“Could you tell me if he’d been taking drugs?”
“Depends on how recent, but his blood smells clean. So where is he?”
Fisher pointed to the box.
“Seriously?”
“Yes. Before we open it, since you’re here could you tell me if you can smell any blood traces anywhere else?”
“Show me around?”
“Right this way.” He politely waved her towards the door leading to the hall leading to the den and bedrooms.
That left me alone with Detective Phelps and Officer Wyatt. Phelps turned away. I shrugged.
“How are the kids, Jimmy?” I asked Wyatt. His face lit up.
“Little Madison’s walking,” he reported proudly. “And Johnny’s on the honor roll this year. He still puts up drawings of you.
”
“Meeting his class was fun.”
Before my popularity crashed Quin had had me doing all sorts of public-relations events; I’d especially liked the school visits
and tours. I smiled, reminded I’d made a good impression on somebody. He took out his wallet to show me the family pictures, and
I made the obligatory but sincere compliments before handing them back.
“Jimmy?” I said softly. “Why all this? I thought Mr. Moffat was an innocent bystander in the bank job?”
Wyatt frowned. “He might have been, miss. Might not. Either way, Detective Fisher thinks the bonds are probably Outfit money.
They might have done this just to make a point.”
“But—” Artemis and Fisher were back, circling the living room. She shook her head, and he looked frustrated. He made a note.
“I’ll have them look for blood trace anyway. But thank you.”
“You’re saying there’s nothing?” Phelps asked skeptically.
“That’s what she’s saying, detective.” He tapped the box with his foot. “Are you ready?”
She smiled. “I’m not squeamish, Lieutenant. But I appreciate your concern.”
“Okay, then.” He lifted the wood lid with his gloved hand, and the copper smell sharpened. I didn’t feel the slightest
temptation to go over and look; instead I watched Artemis.
She dropped her smile. “Now that’s just...wrong.”
“Tell me about it,” Fisher agreed, the cigarette back in his mouth.
“May I?”
He handed her a rubber glove and she pulled it over her own. When she dipped a finger in the stuff I took a sudden interest in the
paintings. The third one from the right, a happy eruption of birds, was pretty good, and I made a mental note to find out if the
artist was local.
“It’s him,” I heard her say. “But not just him. There’s something else.”
“Something else?” Fisher asked. “Not someone?”
I turned back. She was shaking her head.
“No. It’s something almost reptilian, but it’s not. And there are traces of sulfur.”
“Sulfur?”
Now that she said it I could smell it too, a hint of rotten eggs just on the edge of my nose, buried under the blood-smell. I
nodded agreement, and Fisher ran fingers through his hair.
“At least I know we have a victim and not a fugitive. Thank you, both of you. Phelps? You can call the crew in now.”
Fisher followed Artemis and me onto the balcony, where he lit up and sighed.
“God—sorry Astra. I’ve been wanting to do that for an hour.”
Artemis smiled. “I can’t throw stones, detective—all this has made me thirsty and I’m off to The Fortress for a drink.
Goodnight Detective Fisher, and call me anytime you need quick bloodwork done.” Without looking at me, she turned to mist and
faded from sight. Fisher puffed a smoke-ring.
“And that’s not disturbing. Sorry about tonight kid. You okay?”
I sighed. “I wish Atlas were here—I’m no good at this.”
“You’re better than you think. It still sucks.”
I leaned against the balcony. “Do you have any idea who did this?”
“If you mean who put him in the box, no. Who ordered it? Yeah, maybe.”
“Could it be the bank robber?”
He made another ring and shook his head. “Naw. The MOs don’t match. Whoever she is, she left him alive and well; why kill him
now, after we’ve already talked to him?”
“The Outfit?”
“Now there’s a possibility. Especially since our missing Mr. Tony Ross is an independent antiques dealer. Personally, I think he
’s an Outfit banker.”
“A what?”
“Sorry. I think he’s a wise guy who’s job is to hold the cash. It’s better than a numbered offshore account—electronically
untraceable. He keeps a ledger with the bonds, and pulls or collects payments on his trips. An Outfit auditor checks the books
quarterly to keep him honest. Everything’s coded, no names are used, so even if the feds flipped him they wouldn’t get much—and
his bosses probably have something on him anyway. We’ve got the Organized Crime Division looking into that angle.”
“So why kill poor Mr. Moffat?”
“Send a message to anyone who knows what the robbery was about. For all they know, he might have been our thief’s accomplice.”
“Oh.” I shivered, hugging myself. “Do you think Mr. Ross is dead too?”
He nodded. “Yeah kid, I do. Or dropped off the face of the Earth. His bosses have to assume the leak was on his end—or maybe
that he arranged it himself. So he’s dead or running.”
I thought about that.
“You’re not going to catch them, are you?”
Taking a last puff, he ground out the cigarette in his palm (the balcony was still part of the crime scene, I supposed) and tucked
it away.
“Not unless somebody somewhere gets monumentally stupid. Contrary to popular belief, contracted hits are really hard to solve,
even if you have a good idea who ordered the job. We’ll do our best, and they’ve got to be careful. That’s probably why our
thief showed us the bonds; so we’d know who she was stealing from, make them be cautious. Fly safe, kid.”