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come up.”
    “ Other
concerns?”
    He stirs in his seat. “The
injuries on this now-dead man are compatible with having been crushed
against the wall by a force greater than a normal man's.”
    FUCK.
    He stares at me. I pout.
    “ I'm
not getting it.”
    Don't shiver! Don't tremble,
you stupid cow!
    “ We've
been led to believe that this Good Samaritan you said saved you is
not exactly... human.”
    “ What
do you mean? Some alien?”
    “ Superhero.
Someone with superhuman abilities,” he shoots, and I hold on to
whatever part of my brain hasn't gone numb for him not to score.
    “ Superhero?
Well, that's silly. We all know they don't exist anymore.”
    “ Have
you heard of the name Steven Salvatore Waldorf?”
    “ I
think yes.” I try to sound confused, I try to sound like that
same man hadn't been sitting in that same chair before him.
    I try to sound like my heart
isn't aching for a man I've come to care for too much.
    “ Son
of Salvatore Waldorf, nephew of Michelangelo Waldorf.” He takes
a set of pictures from inside his jacket and places them on my desk.
    They are old and faded, but
who could forget those faces? Both were so alike.
    And if you study them
closely, Steven looks so much like them.
    Salvatore had a bulkier
frame though, and, in the picture, was sporting a head full of black
hair that rode down to his shoulders and an equally dark mustache
under his purple mask.
    Michelangelo, on the other
hand, was like a negative picture of his brother. Hazel eyes like
Steven's under a white mask, blonde hair, and a pair of enormous
white wings.
    He looked exactly like an
angel should.
    He was as merciless and
cruel as Satan would.
    Salvatore was the hero,
Michelangelo the villain. Brothers by blood, enemies by choice.
    “ I've
heard stories, that's all.”
    Another picture, a mug shot
of a young Steven, dated somewhere in the ‘60s, wearing his
father's mask. He looked twenty-something, but who knows what age he
really was; superheroes age slower than normal humans.
    I take off my glasses, can't
see straight.
    No wonder he dislikes
handcuffs.
    “ This
man,” the police officer points at Steven's one-dimensional
face, “Steven Waldorf, is very dangerous. Do you know what
powers he has?”
    “ Has?
Isn't he dead? Didn't he die?” Dying is a requirement for
death, right?
    “ Telekinesis
and projecting fantasies into people's minds in order to manipulate
their thoughts.”
    Mind raping, you mean? I
know all about it.
    “ He
was, supposedly, found dead twenty-eight years ago. However, the
injuries inflicted to that man the night of the robbery are
compatible with others by Steven Waldorf in the past. No normal human
being can throw someone against a wall and break every single bone in
that person's body like this man.”
    There it went again. The
accusing finger poking Steven's mug shot.
    “ If this happens to be the man you saw that night, we need to find him
and put him away, for good.”
    Contort my face into a
question and try, for all that's holy, for my voice not to break, not
to give anything away.
    “ He
saved me.”
    “ By
murdering someone.”
    “ Self-defense?”
    He cocks an eyebrow.
    “ Of
course, I'm not defending him. Murder is murder,” I say.
    “ Exactly,”
he replies.
    “ I
wish I had seen his face, really, but I didn't. I ducked away from
the robber's knife and then, all of a sudden, the thief's all bloody
against the wall and the other guy had run off.”
    Secret Agent Man looks at me
like I'm hiding something. “Okay.” Resigns. “Here's
my card.”
    Hide the pictures, slide the
piece of hardened paper to my side.
    “ You
remember anything, call me.”
    “ I
will.”
    Grin. Let yourself out
because I'm not standing from this chair.
    Read
the card. Agent
Kenneth Ross .
    Put it away and let it rot.
    “ Everything
okay?” Daphne's concerned eyes welcome me back to the shop.
    “ Yeah.
The thief died last night.”
    “ Oh
dear.”
    “ I'm
not telling on Steven.”
    She