Songs of Love & Death

have much of a costume, just a mask. Shouldn’t you be going after the thieves instead of him?”

“I need all the information I can get for the report,” the detective said flatly.

She finished making her statement, which she couldn’t see being very useful to any investigation. All she had seen was a swarm of masked men running around performing some mystery play.

“Charlotte!”

Dorian Merriman, hot-shot assistant DA, on the fast track after that Midnight Stalker trial—front-page stuff. She hadn’t called him about what had happened. He had just known, probably through one of his connections in the police department.

He rushed to her side, heroically even, but she was a little too wrung out to be impressed by the feat.

“Are you all right? What happened? I came as soon as I heard. Are you hurt?” He turned to the detective. “Is she hurt?”

“She’ll be fine,” the man said. He straightened the pages on his desk, signaling that they were done.

“Hi,” she said, her smile weak.

He knelt by her side, smoothed back her hair like she was a child, and she beamed back at him. “Now let’s get you home,” he said.

Dorian had brown eyes.

Reporters had arrived at the police station, snapping pictures and demanding answers. Word had gotten out about the masked man, a new rooftop hero in the city, and they kept asking: What was his power? His name? Had he talked to her? What did he say? They already knew who she was; a witness at the restaurant had told them everything. She wondered what the papers would make of it; she’d been right there and she didn’t know what had happened. The detective told her not to say anything, so she didn’t.

In Dorian’s car on the way to her apartment, she got a second wind.

“You should have seen it; it was amazing, I don’t know who this guy was, and the way the cops were talking I’m not sure if they want to catch the thieves or him. You know, I’d have expected him to be wearing some suit or armor like the other ones do, at least maybe spandex, but no, just jeans, and you know how you joke around because you don’t think those flimsy masks would really hide anyone’s identity? But I can’t for the life of me remember what he looked like. I just saw the mask.”

“You weren’t scared?” He glanced at her.

“Well, yeah, sure.” But she let the thought fade. She only wanted to remember amazing.

Charlotte shared an apartment with several other starving-artist types in too small a space, an arrangement that worked because most of them were gone most of the time, at their theaters or band rehearsals or projects or day jobs. The place was in a part of town that in another ten years would be hip and gentrified, and they were all hoping they’d have made their fortunes by then so they could afford to stay.

He guided her inside, made her put on pajamas, tucked a cup of tea in her hands, and apologized.

“I have to get back to work. I want to tell the DA about this. We’ll get those guys. We won’t let anything like this happen again.”

Well, that wasn’t nearly as romantic as him rushing to the police station to tend to her emotional wounds. But Dorian was a very dedicated assistant DA. She didn’t feel quite right complaining.

“But… but I’m not sure I want to be alone right now.”

He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t leave if it wasn’t an emergency. Call me if you need anything, anything at all.”

And there he went, saving the city again. She sighed.

She couldn’t sleep, so she made another cup of tea and sat in a chair by the bedroom window. She half expected to see a shadowed figure running across the rooftops, pausing to strike a heroic pose against a backdrop of city lights. She fell asleep, wrapped in a blanket and leaning against the window, dreaming strange dreams, until one of her roommates came home, nudged her awake, and put her to bed.

HER PHONE RANG early. She had to scramble for it; it was still in the pocket of her jeans, on the floor somewhere.

“Hello?”

“Have you seen the news? Was that really you? Are you okay?”

“Otto?”

“Charlotte, are you all right?”

Muzzy-headed, she rubbed her face. Hadn’t it all been a dream? “Wait a minute. What? How did you—I mean, yeah, I’m okay. How did you hear about what happened?” It was the only conceivable reason Otto would be calling this early in the morning.

“It’s all over the news, hon,” he said. “They’ve been calling the theater. You’re a genius, Charlotte.”

“What are you talking about?”

“As publicity stunts go, this is over the top. I love it.”

“But it wasn’t—”

“I know. I’m teasing. You’re really all right?”

“I—I think so.”

“I know it’s opening night, but if you’re not up to coming out, don’t sweat it.”

Opening night. Almost as terrifying as dangling off a roof. “I’ll be there, I think. I gotta go.”

She clicked him off and went to the computer, to find two roommates already there, ogling over her. And Otto was right, the story was everywhere. Someone had gotten a cell phone picture of the guy in the mask—and Charlotte, looking flustered and windblown. It was all fairly dramatic. The more sedate Web sites had facts and figures, what had been stolen—a shipment of loose diamonds—and what the police knew, sparsely delivered news. Including Charlotte’s name, her association with the theater, and her profession—playwright. There it was in the news; it had to be true, right?

Her phone rang three times in five minutes, friends wanting to know if she was okay, really okay. She put them off as quickly as she could, which probably convinced them that she really wasn’t all right. They’d call again in an hour.

Then Dorian called. “Honey, are you okay?”

“I think so. Hey, do you have time for breakfast or lunch or something?” Anything?

“Well, not really, I’m afraid. I talked the DA into giving me the case. At least, when there is a case, I’ll get it. Isn’t that great? I have to get to the precinct and find out what they’re doing. They’d better not screw this up. This could make my career.”

I almost died, she wanted to mew. Her phone beeped to tell her of another incoming call. She checked—it was her mother this time. She canceled the call. “But you’ll be there tonight, won’t you?” she said to Dorian.

“Tonight?”

“The play, opening night.” It must have seemed like such a small thing to him.

“Oh, right. Of course I’ll be there. I’ll meet you at the theater.”

“And don’t forget about the party afterward. Otto rented out Napoli’s.”

“Of course I’ll be there.”

After Dorian hung up, the phone rang again, a reporter this time. She told the woman to call the police. Then the police called, telling her to tell reporters to call the police, which was a relief.

Mostly, though, she read everything she could find about what had happened.

....

THE MOST HELPFUL source was a Web site called “Rooftop Watch.” It tracked superhumans and masked vigilantes and villains, recorded sightings, and gleefully spread all manner of gossip. Her masked man had been seen two previous times. In both cases, he’d foiled residential robberies by racing in, shining a high-powered flashlight at the would-be burglars as they were breaking into the back doors of houses, then racing out before the thieves could react. Their cover blown, the burglars ran, and so did the masked man, but by then the owners were awake and on the phone with the police.

They were calling him Blue Collar, which seemed rude. It was a commentary on his wardrobe rather than his powers or personality. Nothing like Speed or Blaze or Comet. There was a lot of speculation about who he was, what he was doing. Most commentators in the know figured he was new and starting small, foiling robberies and