“This is Olivia Ortega. Welcome back to a special edition of Viewpoint.
“The big news in Bludhaven is the start of the most publicized trial in Bludhaven’s history. The trial begins tomorrow to determine whether Ersatz Insurance Company will be required to make payment on a policy of life insurance issued to the missing, and presumed dead, Roland Desmond. A jury will decide whether Desmond, also known as Blockbuster, was actually killed by the recent attack on his hospital room at Crosswhite Memorial Hospital. If Desmond is determined to be deceased, the jury will determine who, among four claimants to date, is entitled to receive the proceeds of Desmond’s policy. Many have referred to the proceedings as ‘The Blockbuster Trial’, and based on the atmosphere surrounding it, it should be that very thing.
“With us this evening is Viewpoint’s legal analyst, Brian Capitano. Good morning, Brian.”
The mullet-wielding man in the seat next to Olivia smiled affably. “Good morning, Olivia.”
“Brian, I’ll jump right into it. What is the legal significance of the Blockbuster Trial?”
He looked puzzled by the question. “Well, legally it’s frankly not all that significant, at least in terms of having public policy implications. It’s a lot like the O.J. trial – it draws a lot of attention, but moreso from the public and the media than the legal community.”
“With that in mind,” Olivia was unfazed by not getting the answer she wanted. “Is this a trial we should be following, and why or why not?”
“Sure. Just because it doesn’t have a lot of legal significance doesn’t mean it’s not fascinating drama. A jury is going to be asked to decide a question that has baffled this city for months now – is Roland Desmond dead? Was he killed when Crosswhite Hospital was bombed, or did he somehow escape? Internet message boards have been burning up since the attack with rumors that Desmond was removed from the hospital before the explosion, or that he otherwise survived. Conspiracy theories abound. Desmond has become a fairly notorious figure, even in absentia. People want to hear the evidence for and against these conspiracy theories, and get a decision about their validity – or lack thereof.
“Moreover, the identity of Desmond’s beneficiary is significant. The leading contender seems to be George Orcutt, who is alleged to be Desmond’s cousin.”
“Is there any indication as to whether Orcutt intends, should he prevail, to assume Desmond’s place in Bludhaven? After all, aren’t many of Desmond’s companies currently being held in trust, pending his return? Wouldn’t they also pass to Orcutt, if he is Desmond’s closest living relative?”
“Well, that’s a pretty big leap. You don’t just show up and declare yourself the next Blockbuster, jury verdict or no jury verdict. Desmond presumably left a will, the contents of which have not been revealed to the public. His companies would pass to whoever was named in the will, unless there isn’t one. In that event, they would go to the closest living relative, be that Orcutt or someone else entirely.”
“So what you’re saying is that, at least until the trial concludes, the fate of Blockbuster’s empire is up in the air.”
It felt good to get back into action, Nightwing thought as his fist connected with one of the muggers’ faces. It was the first punch he’d thrown in over a week, and it bothered him a little that he’d missed the violence so much.
The mugger dropped like a rock, but Nightwing sensed his partner trying to sneak up from behind.
At the last moment, Nightwing skillfully ducked to his left, causing the mugger’s crowbar swing to miss. In a fluid motion, Nightwing grabbed the crowbar and yanked it from his unsteady assailant’s hand. The mugger lost his balance and fell face-first onto the pavement, spinning over desparately.
Nightwing pinned him to the ground with a boot in the chest. He extended the confiscated crowbar menacingly from his hand. “Stay. Down.” he growled, using his best Batman voice.
The mugger looked briefly like he might make a go of it, then sagged back against the concrete.
Satisfied that the fight was over, Nightwing pulled out a set of handcuffs and tossed them to his defeated quarry. “Here. Put these on.” The mugger complied, as Nightwing bound his unconscious partner.
The intended victim of the muggers, a young blonde girl, cowered in a nearby doorway. She flinched a little as Nightwing turned his attention to her. He dropped the crowbar and held up his hands innocently. “It’s OK, ma’am. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She relaxed a little, but only a little. He could tell she didn’t trust him, either.
“Look.” he said. “I’ve already alerted the police. They’ll be here in a minute. Will you stay here and watch over Huey and Dewey here? I’ll leave you the crowbar.”
She looked uncertain, glancing nervously at the crowbar. Nightwing heard sirens approaching, and tossed his grapnel into the air. She flinched again when he pulled it out, and he felt like a heel as he swung away. He hoped she would wait for the police, or there’d be no grounds to press charges against her attackers. Like his mentor, Nightwing sometimes unnerved the very people he was trying to help.
Back to business, he thought as he landed on a nearby roof, exhilarated to be high above the city. “Babs?” he asked into his earpiece. “You there?”
“Where else?” came the reply. “So how’s it feel to be a pajamaboy again?”
Nightwing grinned. “So far so good. I’m trying to take it easy for awhile. Just beat up a few muggers. I didn’t realize how much I missed this.”
Babs grinned wistfully in her Clocktower perch, understanding the sentiment all too well. She paused a minute before responding, and Nightwing felt a momentary twinge of guilt. “So why’d you ring me up, Man Wonder?”
“Just checking in. I’m following a lead Angela Shay gave me.. well, gave Dick Grayson.”
“Careful.” Babs cautioned. “You don’t want to get in the habit of referring to yourself in the third person.”
“Yup; I know. I also don’t want to get in the habit of getting set up. Shay told me that Redhorn has a storage unit where he keeps a lot of his records. She thinks there might something there that would implicate him.”
Babs stifled a groan. “Dick, this has got ‘setup’ written all over it. There is no way this is on the up-and-up.”
“Way ahead of you, for a change. That’s why I thought it might be better for Nightwing to check this one out. This calls for a sneaky approach.”
“Keep me posted. Oh and by the way, you did it again. Oracle out.”
“You lost him?!?” Shay was exasperated.
Lady Vic was more calm. “We had a tail on him, but he must have shaken it. Next time I’ll have to do it personally.”
“I gave him a tip. I sent him to the storage locker.”
“Well, at least we know where he’s heading.”
Since entering the Scarpatti’s employ, The Marksman had developed a routine. His meetings with the family occurred at regular intervals. They had virtually no contact by phone or in writing. Almost everything was done in person, usually in a discreet location chosen by the family. On each occasion, Marksman had been frisked for wires. The Scarpatti’s were very committed to keeping their operation secure, and very paranoid toward outsiders.
So he’d been surprised to get a telephone call from Giovanni Scarpatti, earlier in the day, asking for a meeting. And even more surprised to get a call from Deidre Scarpatti. She’d left a message while he’d been out, asking him to call her. She sounded upset, but then most blackmail victims usually did. Odd that she’d call him, though – contact between them was almost always initiated by him.
Something was up. He’d deal with Deidre tomorrow, he thought, and meet with Giovanni tonight.
Upon arrival at the dock Giovanni had specified, Marksman was surprised to see Charles in his place. Cagily, Marksman’s eyes swept the dock, looking for the hidden muscle. Charles wouldn’t have come alone, but he couldn’t locate anyone else.
Displaying a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt, Marksman strode toward Charles. “I was expecting your brother.” he said as he approached. He put his hand out for a shake. To his surprise, Charles took it.
“Thank you for coming.” said Charles. Something about his tone was off, Marksman thought. Charles had always seemed to him to be the more blunt, direct of the brothers. “I apologize for the hurried nature of this meeting.”
Marksman noticed he hadn’t been patted down. Was there a reason? Was he not expected to leave? “No problem.” he replied. “But it is unusual. What’s going on?”
“Earlier today my father received an odd communicae.” He pulled a dirty scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to Marksman. Marksman struggled to read the handwritten note in the poor lighting. “As you can see, someone believes they know who killed my brother Antonio.”
This was impossible, Marksman thought. No one but Deidre knew his identity, and she couldn’t tell anyone without implicating herself. Marksman’s mind raced to analyze the situation. How much did Charles know? Assuming the letter-writer was legitimate, had Charles already talked to him? Had the Scarpatti’s set a trap for the killer?
Marksman folded up the note and returned it to Charles. “Didn’t you get a lot of these ‘tips’ after your brother passed?”
Charles took the paper and pocketed it. “Yes.” he nodded. “Most were from cranks or opportunists, easily dismissed. But this one,” he hesitated. “Whoever wrote this one knows about our alliance with you. Very few people have that information. We’ve been very careful to keep you.. sequestered from our other operatives.”
“Suggesting that the writer is someone with inside information.” Marksman tried to subtly feel for his gun. He thought he could drop Charles before Charles could pull a weapon, but he still didn’t know who else might already have him lined up in crosshairs.
“Exactly. Even if the writer is a crank, we need to find out how he got that information. If we have a leak in the organization, particularly in our inner circle, it needs to be.. closed.”
“I see.” Marksman strained his peripheral vision, desperately trying to see if anyone else was around. To his surprise, he couldn’t pick anyone out. The gears turned in his head. Marksman had been “in the business” for over a decade. In that time, he’d learned to trust his instincts. They rarely failed him, and frankly if he couldn’t count on them, he was going to have a short lifespan anyway.
So Marksman looked Charles directly in the eye and said, “Do you want me to try and find out who the leak is?”
Charles shook his head. “That’s not necessary. We’ll look into that through other channels. In the meantime, we just wanted to know if you already had any information.”
Still a non-committal statement, Marksman thought. But he stayed the course, increasingly confident that Charles did not know his connection to Antonio’s murder. He shook his head. “Afraid not. Frankly, it sounds like another crank to me. I know you guys pride yourselves on anonymity, but this city’s got a pretty big grapevine where it comes to things like this. It wouldn’t be hard for someone to figure out that I’ve been working for you, and use that information to get you to believe something else.
“My opinion – I think someone’s playing you.”
Charles stood for a moment and digested Marksman’s words. Finally, he nodded, but his tone remained noncommittal. “Maybe. We’ll look into it. In the meantime, thanks for your time this evening.” He offered a hand, and Marksman shook it. Then Charles turned and walked away without another word.
After checking to make sure he hadn’t soiled himself, Marksman was overcome with a feeling of elation. Charles didn’t know. He could feel it, like ignorance seeping from his person.
However, it was disconcerting that someone seemed to know. It was a hole that needed to be closed, and quickly.
Shay hurried by Redhorn’s office on her way out of the station. She noticed the lights were off, not unusual during Redhorn’s recent melancholy. But the door was open, and that was odd – usually he had it shut up like a bunker.
Stopping, Shay cautiously stuck her head in the door of the office. Nothing. Redhorn’s phone was blinking, indicating new voice mails. He’d been gone for awhile.
Shay stepped down the hall and found Redhorn’s secretary. “Lois,” she asked. “I see the Chief’s out. Any idea when he’ll be back?”
The morbidly obese woman behind the desk shook her head. “He hasn’t been in all day. Didn’t call, either. Very unlike him.”
Shay thanked her and left. Had Redhorn finally snapped and killed himself? Run for some other locale? Maybe – that’d solve a lot of problems quickly. But her gut nagged her – something felt wrong. Redhorn was up to something.
Deidre Scarpatti was beyond frantic. She’d gotten no response from Marksman. That bastard, she thought. He had to be behind the letter sent to Romeo Scarpatti – the one that boasted it could blow the lid off of Antonio’s murder. He was the only one who knew, the letter’s only possible author. She’d paid and paid and paid, just like he demanded, and he’d ratted her out anyway. When she found him, she thought, she’d kill him. And this time she’d do it herself, the way she should have killed her philandering bastard of a husband. And no one would know. There’d be no one to blackmail her ever again.
She’d managed to get a look at the envelope in which the infamous letter had been mailed. The Scarpatti men were so involved with the letter’s contents, they’d paid little attention to the envelope. Eventually they’d think to do it, but she’d beaten them to the punch. She’d looked at the postmark, and seen where the letter had been mailed. It was a clue – scant, perhaps, but a clue nonetheless. She’d use it to track Marksman, she thought, figure out where he lived.
And then she’d kill him. She’d never been more certain of anything in her life.
Romeo Scarpatti answered the phone on the first ring.
“Granny knot.” A man’s voice on the other end of the line.
He’d anticipated the call, thought over all the ways it might go, but now that the moment was here, a lead ball formed in Romeo’s gut. He looked around his study, pleased for some reason that he was alone. “To whom am I speaking?” he asked politely.
“No names.” The voice was abrupt.
“Listen, you..”
“No, you listen. I don’t have time for games. I’m Deep Throat. I know who killed Antonio. Bring ten million dollars to the Leonardi Street Subway tunnel. Leave it in the trash can by the east gate. Come alone. Do not mark the money. Do not tell anyone about this call. After I have the money, I’ll call back.”
“Hello? Hello?!?” Romeo rang his security head, hoping against hope they’d been able to trace the location of the call. As he thought, no luck. The call had been too short.
Well played, Deep Throat, he thought. The game reached its next stage. Romeo made a call to his pet bank.
Nightwing’s binoculars enabled him to view the storage building from a block away. Redhorn’s unit was an outdoor unit, and he could see the padlock on its front, even from a distance.
He could also see who else was watching the unit.
Lady Vic had just hung up with Angela Shay, and was growing perturbed. This was not going according to plan, but it was still salvageable if the Grayson kid was doing his job.
Redhorn in fact did have a storage unit, that he thought was a secret. It wasn’t. Blockbuster had made it his business to know things like that. The unit contained lots of incriminating evidence. When she’d broken in, Lady Vic had altered much of the evidence, removed some, and added some more. There was plenty of information in the unit to put Redhorn away forever. Not that it would reach that point. The goal was to turn Redhorn into an outlaw, force him to either run or be arrested. If he ran, great. He’d be out of their hair, his last remaining shreds of power gone. If he stayed, he’d be captured. And he’d die in prison, probably the result of “suicide”. Any “information” he tried to offer to gain his freedom would be rejected out of hand, his credibility ruined.
And Angela Shay would move right into Redhorn’s job.
The trick was, Shay needed to be distanced from the bust. The power play would be too obvious if Shay collared Redhorn. It would be looked upon as a coup d’etat, Shay stabbing Redhorn in the back to gain power. She’d never be able to gain anyone’s trust – either the force or the mob – if she was perceived as a backstabber. Let them think the Grayson kid was the catalyst. Someone would probably kill him in retaliation, but no big loss, right? Especially since she’d doctored some of the evidence to subtly implicate him as well – he’d never have time to go through all of it before turning it in.
Except Grayson wasn’t here. No one knew where he was. If he didn’t show up, the plan wouldn’t work. Shay had seemed sure of her ability to manipulate Grayson, but then again she was sure she could manipulate anyone, and she hadn’t done such a good job lately with Redhorn.
Lady Vic dropped down onto the roof of the shed. Maybe Grayson suspected a setup. Maybe he was watching, and would think she was trying to remove the evidence. Maybe that’d spur him to show himself. Worth a try.
Cautiously, she dropped to the ground. Carefully, she picked the padlock. This was better anyway, she thought, because it would keep Grayson from needing a warrant if he did show. The evidence would be in plain sight.
“Vicky Vicky Vicky.”
Lady Vic jerked her head upward, stunned that anyone could sneak up on her. Nightwing stood perched like a vulture off the top of the building, grinning from ear to ear.
“Did you lose your keys again? You know, they’re always in the last place you look.”
Lady Vic snarled and reached for her Bundi daggers as Nightwing leaped off the roof, his leg primed for a kick. Lady Vic couldn’t get the daggers raised before Nightwing’s foot collided with her jaw. The padlock dropped to the ground as she staggered backwards, watching Nightwing somersault into triple-threat position.
“Why. Are. You. Here?!?” she screamed as she raced toward him, the daggers now primed for action. Nightwing leaped straight up to avoid her charge, balancing himself briefly on her head, then catapulting behind her. Her frustration grew. “You should not be here!!”
A shuriken flew from Nightwing’s hand as he landed, striking her in the wrist and causing her to drop one of her daggers. “Long time no see, Vic. You been doing okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Nightwing launched himself toward the remaining dagger, grabbing her wrist in an effort to jar it loose.
Lady Vic steadied herself, allowed her arm to be grabbed, then delivered a swift kick to Nightwing’s midsection. She felt him exhale as he lost his wind, and wasted no time pressing the advantage. She flipped him over and off her arm, grabbing for the other dagger in the same motion. Nightwing landed on his feet, as always, but with his back to her. She swooped up the dagger and swung it around toward him. Nightwing sensed the dagger’s approach and swung forward, but not before the dagger tore the back of his costume. He let out a yelp and rolled away from her.
“You goddamn meddler!” she screamed, charging toward him once more. Drops of blood littered the pavement where he’d rolled. Nightwing feigned serious injury for just a second, giving Lady Vic a chance to approach, then swung his foot out behind him, catching her squarely in the chest.
The kick didn’t knock her down, but it stopped her forward progress long enough for Nightwing to spin around and deliver a roundhouse punch to her face. Lady Vic’s mask cracked slightly from the impact as she staggered backward.
“Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy Vicky.” Another kick knocked the Bundi dagger from her left hand. With her momentum still carrying her opposite the kick, she was unable to stop him from grabbing the other arm with both of his. She tried to land another blow to his midsection, but her balance was off, and he wasn’t falling for it again. He pulled her back to her right, reversing her momentum and causing her feet to slide out from under her, then slammed her to the pavement, face-down.
The mask splintered further as she hit, and a splitting pain filled her head. She was in trouble, and she knew it. She wondered if she had a concussion as she tried unsuccessfully to clear her thoughts. Nightwing spun both of her hands behind her back. He twisted on the left arm until she heard a crack, and more pain flooded her nerves. Against her will, she screamed.
Nightwing eased up slightly on the pressure, but not enough for her to move. In one fluid motion, he cuffed her hands behind her back, still keeping her pinned so she couldn’t roll over. Her last hope was her legs, but she could only kick futilely, nowhere near doing any damage. She tasted blood from a split lip on the sidewalk.
In seconds, Nightwing had her feet bound as well. He rolled her over on her back and stood over her. Her vision was blurry, the ringing in her ears deafening. Furious, she spat in his face.
Nightwing wiped away the blood-filled loogie. “You probably lost a tooth in there, Vic. Now,” he leaned down toward her. “We need to have a chat.”
“Go to hell, you bastard!! I will kill you for this.”
“Heard it before, Vic. What’s going on here? What oh what does Redhorn have hiding in this storage unit?”
“Why don’t you look for yourself, you son of a bitch?”
“Can you get through a sentence without calling me a name?”
“You broke my arm.”
“Probably. And you’re delaying your medical treatment by not talking.”
Lady Vic felt cold all over. She tried to will herself not to go into shock. Nightwing wouldn’t kill her, and he wouldn’t let her die. She knew that. No reason to talk.
“Vicky, I’m talking to you here.” He slapped her softly across the face. Another insult.
Suddenly, both of them were distracted by a voice behind them. “Well, well, if it isn’t the pajama brigade.” Chief Redhorn stood about twenty feet away, pointing a .45 at both of them with his right hand, his left in his pocket. “You know, I think this storage unit has outlived its usefulness.” His voice was tinged with something neither Nightwing nor Lady Vic had heard in it before.
“Put down the gun, Redhorn.” ordered Nightwing.
“No thanks.” Quickly, Redhorn pulled a flash grenade from his left pocket. Before anyone could react, he pulled the pin and threw it toward the storage unit. “Die now.” He was already racing the other way before the grenade reached its target.
Lady Vic’s eyes went wide – she couldn’t move. She felt Nightwing move quickly just before the world filled with fire and a sound like a plane crashing.
To Be Continued...
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