of Captain Olympus and Spark?”
“Can I ask you a few questions? Let me back up a little. I’m very interested in the psychology of superhuman crime fighters. I’ve written several articles on the subject—I could get copies for you, if you’re interested. You might have a particular insight into this area of study. Purely anecdotal, of course.”
He regarded her, brow raised like he expected her to launch into a personal chat about her parents then and there.
“I’m probably not the best person to ask,” she said. “I’m a little too close to the joke, as it were.”
“You think what your parents do is a joke?”
The last thing she wanted was to have
If he’d whipped out a notepad and started writing, as he looked like he wanted to do, she’d have snatched it out of his hands and beat him with it. But he just stared attentively.
“No, I suppose not. But your perspective on the topic is unique, you have to admit. Why do you think your parents do what they do? Why do any of the city’s crime fighters don costumes and risk their lives?”
He probably wouldn’t go away if she just told him to. If she did that, he’d probably get all kinds of warped ideas about her bitter attitude being a defense mechanism that stemmed from the trauma of growing up in the uncertainty of a household of superhuman vigilantes.
Not that she’d ever thought about this before or anything.
She said, “I think most of them believe their powers are a gift. That because of it they have some kind of destiny, a responsibility to protect those weaker than themselves. It’s a calling.”
“I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it than that. Look at the Hawk—I’ve studied his case extensively, and he wasn’t superhuman. He had no powers. What drove him to fight crime? Especially under the guise of a costumed persona?”
The Hawk. The original vigilante. He appeared on the scene in Commerce City forty years ago, disappeared twenty years later—after secretly placing a note on the then mayor’s desk that read, “I retire.” Every five years or so a new book came out discussing his case, speculating on his psychology, and guessing who he might have been, really. Worse than the debate about who wrote Shakespeare’s plays. The evidence was just as sketchy. What intrigued people most about him: he’d had no powers. Perfectly normal, mortal. Everyman.
“Maybe some of them get a rush out of it.”
“But if that were the case, why did the Hawk just retire? In studies of people who participate in extreme sports, their activities come to resemble an addiction. They rarely stop until they’re incapacitated or killed. I have an idea that it’s the same with the vigilante crime fighters.”
She might worry about her father getting killed, except he was the indestructible Captain Olympus and the point seemed moot. He looked after her mother and the others. They’d all had scrapes, sure. But they’d come through, every time.
He continued. “Do your parents ever talk about retiring? Do they show any sign of it?”
None at all. But she didn’t think that was Ivers’s business.
“Doctor, have you ever talked to any of the city’s superhumans?”
His lips pressed into a line. “I’m treating Barry Quinn currently.”
Barry Quinn, also known as Plasma. His affinity for electricity made him immune to electric shock. In fact, when he absorbed enough of a charge, he could throw back bolts of lightning at any chosen target. A human capacitor. He’d spent a couple of years as a celebrated hero, made the front pages of the papers. He was also a paranoid schizophrenic who believed his medication dampened his powers. It had only been a matter of time before he ended up here. Mentis had consulted on the case originally. He’d passed along a summary, and an unhopeful prognosis.
“How is that going?”
He started to say something, then shook his head. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. I really can’t say. On the other hand, there’s your father. Successful, healthy—he’s been at this for a quarter of a century.”
Her father, healthy? To her credit, she didn’t laugh. “You should talk to him yourself.”
His eyes went round; he looked stricken. “But how would I find him? How would I contact him? Vigilante crime fighters don’t exactly have phone numbers.”
“His identity’s been known for years. The number for West Corp’s central offices is listed. You could set up an appointment with my dad’s secretary.”
“I suppose … I hadn’t really considered … I can see you’re busy, Ms. West. I ought to leave you to it. Thanks for your time.” He retreated, backing out of the room as he stammered his excuses.
If she wanted to give the guy a heart attack, she could ask Arthur Mentis or Analise to give
She finally reached the first entry in Simon Sito’s medical file. This was a five-page report detailing a laboratory accident that had precipitated Sito’s nervous breakdown. At least, Celia assumed the report detailed the accident. Great swaths of it were blacked out, censored by government order. Sito had been working on government research. None of this was new information. She might be inclined to assume that Sito had been cared for by a government or military pension. But that wouldn’t have paid for a stay at a place like Greenbriar. He’d have been placed at Elroy or some other public or military hospital.
According to the report, or what was left of it, Sito hadn’t been physically injured. The project wasn’t of a kind that could cause physical injury. Instead, the failure of the project had unbalanced him. That was why he’d been placed in a psychiatric ward. The hospital bills had been paid by a trust fund set up on his behalf—the source of the fund wasn’t listed.
The information that had been blacked out involved the substance of the experiment—what exactly Sito and the research team had been trying to accomplish—and the other parties involved. There was another party involved. Sito was working for a private lab, and that lab was under contract to the government. That lab had probably provided Sito’s trust fund.
The censors had left her one scrap of information. They had been most concerned with people, with the research, anything that could be used to figure out what Sito had been working on. But they’d left her the name of the building where the lab had been located: Leyden Industrial Park. That was enough of a scrap to keep her moving.
In the meantime, she had a date to get ready for.
SEVEN
CELIA felt like the belle of the ball, strolling into the lobby of the symphony hall on the arm of Detective Paulson. He wore a dark suit with a band-collar silk shirt, smelled pleasantly of aftershave, and had not a hair out of place. He was slickly handsome, in an international spy kind of way.
She wore a strapless black cocktail dress accented with a silk shawl, beaded midnight blue and silver that shimmered and changed color when she moved, and carried a clutch too tiny for anything but a couple of condoms and cab fare home, because you just never knew. She wore her short hair fashionably ruffled, and had silver dangling earrings.
The two of them turned heads when they passed by. Celia wasn’t used to people paying attention to her for any other reason than her being at the center of some disaster. It was a nice change. Mark liberated a couple of glasses of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and gave one to her with a slight bow. Grinning, Celia toasted him.
The evening had a theme: Italian villa at twilight. Fake marble pillars draped with ivy had been set up in the corners, and strings of white lights decorated lattice arches under which people could sit on carved benches next to neoclassical statues. The gathered company was a who’s-who of Commerce City’s elite, politicians and businesspeople, actors and sports figures, all eager to show themselves great patrons of the arts. They were a
