Wearing The Cape: Villains Inc. Read Online Free PDF Page A

super-genius computer brain or not, she died when we were both fifteen and emotionally she still was.   No way was I letting a kid too young to get into an R-rated movie see a homicide scene.   Especially a superhuman homicide scene.
     
    “ It’s not like I haven’t seen bodies before ,” she objected.
     
    “I know, but you don’t have to. I don’t want to.   So, no link. Only the earbug .”
     
    “ But—”
     
    “No.”
     
    Silence.
     
    “Shelly?”
     
    “ Okay …” she sighed. She had to accept it; the Anarchist had made it part of her privacy protocols. But though I heard token sulking I could tell she wasn’t too disappointed.   Like me, she’d already seen things that made her want to bleach her brain.
     
    The address for the call took us to one of the luxury condo towers on Ohio and Dearborn.   Detective Fisher simply had one of the uniforms, Officer Wyatt, stand out on the fifteenth floor balcony where I could see him as I came in.   Landing and peering inside, I whistled.
     
    It looked like someone had gone through the condo and fed every piece of furniture into a wood-chipper; bits and pieces of frame and upholstery covered the floor.   A hardwood box about the size of a wine crate sat in the center of the mess.   Fisher stood in the separated kitchen, talking to Phelps.   Though thankfully I couldn’t see evidence of anything beyond extreme vandalism, I could smell the copper tang of blood.   Lots of it. Maybe in the bedroom?
     
    “Detective?”
     
    He cut off his argument with Phelps and waved me in.   Carefully picking his way through the mess, he handed me some foot covers to slip on.   I was getting too used to them.
     
    An unlit cigarette dangled from his mouth.   He looked uncomfortable, and I realized he might have the same problem with my viewing the crime scene as I did with Shelly.   He might actually be more comfortable with Galatea for scenes like this.
     
    “What are we looking at?” I asked quietly.
     
    “Ralph Moffat’s apartment.”
     
    “Ralph—the banker?”
     
    He nodded.   “You were right about the lady in the vault footage being his date; he confirmed it when we questioned him.   Never seen her before, brought her home for coffee, woke up when we knocked on his door the next morning.   She roofied him.”
     
    “Then why—”
     
    “The enhanced vault footage gave us the contents of the document case.   Bearer bonds. Japanese treasuries, hundred thousand dollar denominations.”
     
    “Oh.”   I wanted to sit down.   It had been a thick document case.   Assuming at least a hundred sheets…   “How much, do you think?”
     
    “Jenny figures, assuming all the bonds are the same, close to ten million dollars.   That’s a big if , but regardless we’re still talking about millions.”
     
    “Any luck finding the owner of the deposit box?”
     
    “Not yet.   Mr. Ross’s office is closed while he’s ‘on vacation.’”
     
    Phelps coughed behind us, and Fisher grimaced.
     
    “The crime-scene photographers have recorded every inch of the place, but I wanted you here before we started moving anything around.”
     
    “Where should I start?”
     
    “Start here—you can look at the other rooms later.   And leave the box alone.”
     
    I nodded, lifting high enough to make sure my feet stayed a couple of inches off the mess.   Air-walking was easy if I wasn’t trying for speed.
     
    The long living room probably took up half of the condo’s square footage.   A huge plasma TV on one wall told me where the entertainment area had been, and the ceiling along the inner wall had been rigged with track lights to illuminate a row of paintings (mostly impressionistic, but colorful—Mr. Moffat had good taste).   A bar separated the kitchen from the dining area at the far end.
     
    Focusing on the piles of chips and pieces, I frowned.   I looked at the walls again, then, holding my short cape aside, touched down and