Title: A Worthy Adversary
Author: BlueHawaii
Words: 5782
Rating: PG-13 (Unless you have a problem with blood and kissing.)
Warnings: Again blood and kissing, but that's to be expected.
Disclaimer: I don't own Heroes.
Summary: AU. Peter is a 1950's detective, being asked to investigate the city's most powerful crime lord, Sylar.
Hope you enjoy it. Don't forget to review.
A pretty blond with legs stretching on for forever had stepped into the joint; a dark figure at the bar, who had been nursing the same drink for an hour, kept one eye on her, as she made her way to a table somewhere in a dark corner of the bar.
After the man at the bar turned back around to swig down the rest of his drink, he was surprised to find, when standing to leave, that the woman had already finished her drink that had miraculously appeared on her table.
Baby blue eyes met dark brown, almost black, and a smile spread on her pretty mouth.
"So what was the dame's name?" Peter asked, taking a large gulp of alcohol after the sentence.
"Eva. Although, there is no way of knowing if that was her real name."
Peter looked at the man sitting next to him. It was hard to tell if he was speaking the truth or not; in this dark dank bar, his brown eyes were black in the darkness. Nevertheless, he kept his stare, which was a good sign.
Not looking away, Peter reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a cigarette. He lit it and there was a flash of light that brightened up his eyes for a moment. They were still steadily glaring back. The anger built up over the past couple of days was directed at him and his alone, which was strange considering he was the good guy here.
Talking around the cigarette dangling from his lips, Peter decided to start from the beginning again.
"Okay pal, lets take this from the top." He sat forward for a second to straighten out his dark pin-striped jacket, while speaking out the corner of his mouth that wasn't holding the cigarette. "You met this gal, Eva, here at this bar last Friday night."
The man, next to him, also leaned forward in his chair, resting his arms on the bar. His hands gestured along with the words he was saying.
"Yes. I had finished work for the day, and thought I would go out for a drink to relax and unwind. I'd never seen her before in my life, I swear, and she had been giving me the eye from the moment she walked in."
"So you hadn't planned on meeting her?"
The man lifted both of his hands in protest before he answered.
"No, of course not. I knew nothing about her. I still don't and I guess, now, I never will."
"So you did see her again, after that night?"
This caused the man to glance down at his fidgeting hands.
"Yeah, I came back the next night and so did she."
Peter took a heavy drag of the cigarette, blowing the smoke into the empty space between the two men. No one said anything for a while. The bar they were in was surprisingly empty for a Friday night, they would have been alone with the bar-man if it wasn't for the two gentlemen sitting at a table on the opposite side of the room. It was pretty much silent without them talking.
Peter finished off the cigarette, crushing it into the ashtray on the bar.
"When did you find out what happened?"
"Wednesday. I went back hoping to see her, but she didn't show up."
Without having to be asked, the bar-man placed down two more drinks. Peter caught the man's eye, giving him a quick smile by quirking up one side of his mouth in thanks.
"I thought maybe it was something I had said or done. I thought I had blew my chance, so I did what any guy would do in that situation. I got drunk." To punctuate his final sentence he downed the entire glass with one flick of his wrist. Peter watched the man's face scrunch up, like he had just sucked a lemon dry, then look towards him, obviously waiting for an answer.
"Look, you're breaking my heart with this little trip down memory lane, you really are, but I don't see how this connects t Sylar and his goons."
"Well, after the bar-man," he jerked his thumb towards the man who was chatting with the other two men in the room, "after he had decided I'd had enough, he kicked me out."
Peter was trying his best to piece all of this together, but so far he was getting nowhere. The phone call he had received yesterday hiring him to investigate this case had already explained these basics to him. Tuesday night, they had found a girl floating face down in the river; and with a little bit of work, the feds found out her name, Eva Reilly. The bruises didn't indicate rape, so they just chalked it up as a suicide. There were plenty of similar cases lately so it held nothing out of the ordinary.
He had only agreed to meet the guy the next day out of boredom. Things had been pretty slow lately, only suicide cases being settled before actually even opening. Despite the sudden rise in crime over the past year and the steady decrease of the feds even trying to fix a fight, both of which Peter blamed on the arrival of Sylar and his goons, Peter found himself with nothing to do, work-wise.
Peter had agreed to meet this 'Thomas' even when knowing, full well, nothing would amount from it. Meeting Thomas and sharing a drink with him only consolidated his thoughts and theories.
Thomas lifted his glass to his mouth, not really noticing that no liquid swirled into it.
"As I walked home, I was sure there was someone following me. At first I just thought I was being paranoid and maybe slightly drunk, but when I walked through the last alleyway a man was there waiting for me."
Peter eventually pulled his gaze away from the two men opposite them to look at Thomas when he said this. Maybe he was finally getting somewhere.
"What happened? Who was he?"
"Turns out he was waiting there to twist my arm."
"About what? What could you possibly need to keep quiet about?" Peter reached for another cigarette, things were beginning to spark his interest.
"Are you forgetting the reason I asked you here?" Peter puffed at his cigarette and Thomas nodded at Peter's gaze.
"Did you get a good look at this man?" Thomas sighed and rubbed his forehead. The drinks were starting to take affect.
"Not really, it was dark. All I noticed was that he was big, you know, beefy. Also he was dressed not too dissimilar to the way you are now."
"Is that all you got? It's not much for me to go on is it?"
Thomas looked somewhat excited about what he was about to say. He sat straighter in his chair and used his hands to gesture again.
"It wasn't what he looked like that interested me, it was what he said."
"And that was?"
"Apparently Sylar doesn't want me turning into a self-appointed hero over this girl. The guy told me to back off and forget this dame ever existed."
"What did he do when you said no?" Thomas didn't answer right away, but when he did he rested his hand over his chest before talking.
"It hurts to take deep breaths. Although, the alcohol does help."
It was silent in the room. Peter glanced over to the other table, only to be surprised to find it empty. He didn't remember seeing or hearing them leave. It must have been a while ago, as well, because the bar-man had already washed and dried their glasses and wiped down their table.
"Eva was murdered. I don't know why but Sylar killer her."
"And you want me to find out why."
"If you think you can."
"I'll figure it out." It was like sugar on the tongue.
After he left Thomas, Peter began to walk home. The streets were empty and dark, and Peter seemed to be the only figure silently moving.
Being mid-October, there was still a hint of the warm sticky weather that had plagued them for a few months, although the wintry weather was trying to make itself known, very frequently. Peter could feel the heat radiating under his big coat. The hands in his pockets were pleasantly warm but when a gust of wind breezed past him he could feel bitter parts of it cut against his nose. That coupled with the sinuously moving shadows behind him, caused Peter to increase his pace across the grey granite slabs.
He turned down yet another impossibly dark alleyway, never once faltering his step. Not even when a passing car's headlights blazed the area, momentarily brightening everything in sight, before quickly dimming again.
It wasn't long that he had to listen to only his own footsteps resonating in the confined alleyway. Very soon, he was stepping back into the slightly lighter streets, hearing the rumble of nearby cars. Peter followed the dull street lights along the path. He enjoyed their subtle glow. They were neither too bright that it hurt to look at them, nor too gloomy rendering their existence pointless.
While he stared at the wavering light as he walked, something else caught his eye. It took a few seconds to convince himself that it wasn't a trick of the mind and had really happened, but those seconds were precious seconds. Before he really had time to react, he saw it again. A glint of metal emerging from the shadows to the side of him. A gloved hand followed it until it revealed a simply dressed, beefy man wearing a fedora. The look on the man's face was that of a twisted grimace, probably from the increasing chill sweeping down the streets.
Peter steadily stepped backwards out of the path of the gun and, without realizing, into the path of another. He, regrettably, jumped when he felt the cold metal press into the small of his back. Whoever it was behind him, urged him forward by sharply pressing harder with the butt of the pistol. He had no choice but to follow the request and kept moving until he was facing a wall.
Up close, he could see all the grains that made up the bricks, just centimeters from his nose.
A gruff voice, belonging to one of the men behind him, told him to turn around. Peter didn't move right away, he first twisted his grip around the object in his pocket. Thankfully, he had the foresight to bring it just in case. Inside his coat's deep pockets was an eight-shot, steel framed revolver with a glossy brown walnut grip.
Running his finger along the barrel, he thought about the likelihood of him getting a shot in before either one of them had a chance to react. Without much thought he decided on not very likely. Nevertheless, he could think of nothing else that could get himself out of this predicament.
A longer time past than the goons appreciated and Peter still hadn't turned around.
"What's the hold up? Lets go." The goon to the right of him huffed when he saw Peter hadn't moved.
Peter tightened his hold, psyching himself up before he dared carry out his plan. Though just as he was about to spin around, a hand clapped into the back of his head, crushing his face against the rough surface he had been studying for the past minute or so. Uneven grains scraped against his forehead and Peter felt it flash red hot before stinging when the wind brushed past it. What he could only guess was blood began trickling down his face. It wasn't much but it was enough to form droplets along his jaw line.
This sudden jarring of his thoughts seemed to help Peter made up his mind. Still maintaining his heavy grasp on the pistol, he swung his fist around, cringing when it made contact with one of the goon's temple. Not missing a beat, he brought his other hand up, aiming the surprisingly lofty pistol at the remaining goon. The bullet tore off in the right direction but Peter failed to see any responsive splatter of blood. What he did see was the bullet ricocheting off a wall behind the goon as if it had passed right through him.
Peter finally had a chance to study hid captors as everyone had a moment to process what had just happened.
The man Peter had first stumbled on was sitting up on the ground, the heel of his hand pressing hard into his eye. The other man, who wasn't quite as large as the first, was standing directly in front of Peter. His mouth was curved up into a smug smile. There were no obvious bullet wounds decorating his body. If possible, the smile spread wider at the puzzled look Peter sent him.
The larger goon rose from the floor, removing his hand in the process. Right before Peter's eyes, the sizable gash above the goon's eyebrow grew smaller before completely disappearing. There were still traces of blood left behind but the injury had healed.
"Well heck, that's no fair." All Peter got in response were two widening grins.
At the same time, both goons seemed to remember the pistol in Peter's hand. The smiles slipped away.
Peter lifted the pistol, aiming it again at the smaller goon. He didn't really think it would form any kind of protection anymore, but it still helped put him at ease, considering the situation.
A familiar stinging sensation began spreading across Peter's forehead starting at the bloody graze above his eyebrow, and moving down the left side of his face. Running his fingertips over the slight irritation, he was shocked to find the wound absent. Leaving behind soft, pale, lightly blood spattered skin.
He wasn't the only one to notice this strange regeneration. Both of the goons stepped forward, as if to grab Peter's arms. However, before they had a chance to seize them, Peter's reaction had been to step back out of the way. He found himself moving further back than he had initially intended.
His body and limbs shivered due to unexpected cold. He had been waiting for the rough surface of the bricks to break his fall, but they never came. Instead he passed through them. For a second Peter could see inside the wall, the shade was a lot lighter than those outside, but he quickly fell to the floor on the other side of the wall.
It was quieter on this side, the echo of passing cars was muffled as was the loud shout coming from where he had been standing just moments ago.
Still taking in the events that led him here, Peter just sat on the floor while staring at the wall. He barely registered the gloved lanky looking hand that reached through. He did, however, notice when it began pulling him back through the wall. Before he knew what was happening, he was on his feet in front of the two goons again. Taking into a account the annoyed looks on their faces, they were less than pleased.
Although, Peter didn't have long to scrutinize the looks they were sending him. He watched as the large goon pointed Peter's own steel revolver at him; he must have dropped it in the panic. While anticipating the shot, he closed his eyes. He didn't remember hearing the shot, but he felt it explode through his shoulder; then everything went black.
When he came to, he found himself lying face down on a pleasantly soft carpet. He attempted to move his arm, waiting for the sharp pain to stop him. It didn't. He managed to bring his hand up to rub at his tired eyes.
From what he could make out, on the floor, he was now inside. Possibly somebody's office as there was a large, dark wooden desk opposite the door. Everything in the room was doused in shadows making it hard to see anything properly.
The only light in the room was coming from the glare of the street lights outside. They shone through the blinds, casting patterns onto the chair behind the desk.
Peter struggled to his knees; the arm he had been lying unconscious on, for god knows how long, tingled as life came back to his fingertips. For the first time since he had woke up, he noticed he was no longer wearing his coat, just his jacket, that had got a bit twisted from the journey, and his shirt that had been un-tucked on one side.
When trying to remember where his coat may have disappeared to, the moments before he passed out flashed through his head. He grappled with the arm of his jacket, pulling it straight on his body. His gaze shot to the bloody mess on his right shoulder. The thing that puzzled him most though was the lack of pain. Just looking at the amount of blood made his stomach flip-flop uncomfortably, but he felt nothing. Peter's brow furrowed considerably at this.
He tugged his now useless jacket off his shoulders and dropped it onto the dark carpet. Like the jacket, the shirt was also splattered in blood, it stood out more as well because of its crisp white colour. Already, without removing it, Peter could see the pale skin beneath the bullet hole in the shirt. There was no trace of any wound. As a reflex, he touched his forehead; nothing.
A sudden slam of the door connecting with the wall jarred Peter's hand. He froze with his back to the open doorway. It was a couple of seconds until he heard more than one set of footsteps enter the room. He didn't dare turn to face them, preferring to stare at the ground. He wasn't stupid, he knew where he was and what was most likely going to happen to him.
Two meaty looking hands hooked onto his shoulders and Peter was silently grateful there wasn't a newly inflicted wound, that this giant oaf of a man would have just stuck his fingers in.
Another pair of slightly skinnier hands joined them. Both goons were keeping him pressed down on the carpet. Any attempt to rise to his feet would be met by a sharp tug in the opposite direction.
A tall man Peter had never seen before, but he could guess who he was, walked past the edge of his vision, towards the empty chair. He didn't sit down, but instead removed the fedora from his head and rested it on the polished surface of the desk. The man then came back around and leaned on it, while facing Peter and his goons.
Peter could feel the man's eyes on the top of his head, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to look up.
He didn't really have a choice though, because the man reached forward and tilted his chin up for him. Peter looked directly into his eyes, even in this light he could see they were brown, but the man was looking at his forehead instead. The rough hand on his chin moved up to brush back the hair, clumped together with dried blood, out of his eyes. He then glanced down, meeting Peter's stare.
"I guess it's safe to say you know who I am, right?" Peter didn't need to answer him because the man just stood straight again and smiled.
"What do you want with me, Sylar?"
Sylar signaled to the two goons. They immediately dropped Peter's arms. One of them moved to shut the door, while the other went and stood by the door frame.
"Well at first, we just wanted to scare you." He moved back to the chair, sunk into the seat and propped his legs up on the desk top. "Thought if we did, you'd back off, but you," he reached his into pocket, pulling out a cigarette and placing it between his lips, " you had to go and make things interesting, didn't you?"
Sylar patted down his pockets, looking for a lighter, but when he failed to find one, he simply lifted his hand in front of the cigarette and clicked his fingers. Instantly, his fingers brightened. Flames erupted from nothing and Peter bit back a gasp. He waved his hand and the fire was gone. Sylar caught the wistful look that briefly appeared on Peter's face and chuckled to himself.
Cigarette still dangling from his lips, Sylar stood. On the way to standing in front of Peter once again, he mumbled something to the goons, around the cigarette. Peter was aware that Sylar had just spoke the names of the goons out loud, but he wasn't really taking anything in at the moment. He knew that that was the kind of information he should remember for this case, but for the time being he had completely forgotten about it.
The door opened and closed behind him. When he turned around he saw that the goons had left, leaving him alone with Sylar.
Peter rolled his shoulders, trying to nudge the shirt into a more comfortable position, after the goons had scrunched up the fabric. Doing this reminded himself that he was no longer being held onto the floor. He attempted to stand, but something still had a hold on him. A quick look at Sylar told Peter all he needed to know. There was a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and Peter knew that somehow he was doing this.
Sylar plucked the cigarette out between his lips with his thumb and forefinger, he held it down by his side as he walked towards the defeated figure of Peter on the floor.
"While you were out, Ricky told me everything that happened. How you held your own against them." Peter tested the hold again, finding it even stronger than before. "We weren't expecting that."
The more Peter struggled, the more he realized how claustrophobic he was getting, Sylar wasn't moving any closer, but nor was he moving away. He was a sitting duck. He was on his knees at the mercy of the most powerful man in the city, and after what he had seen, already tonight, he could see why. Peter watched as Sylar raised his hand again, but instead of fire lighting up the room, there was nothing. Sylar just lucidly twitched his fingers to the right. Then as if a breeze had swept through the room, Peter felt the blood stained hair on his forehead flutter out of his eyes.
"You may have noticed by now, that we are not normal, no sir. And we just so happened to notice something not quite right with you." While Sylar talked he glared at Peter's pale forehead. "So spill."
The room was silent. Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Even he couldn't explain what went on earlier. How his wounds healed over in a matter of seconds was a mystery to him, and how he had managed to travel through the wall was something he was still trying to convince himself was real. If anyone was likely to know, Peter would have guessed it was Sylar.
The only thing to pop into his head was the case. So he went with that.
"Why did you kill Eva Reilly?"
Sylar was a little thrown off by the sudden irrelevant question. He dropped his hand and Peter felt a weight lift off his shoulders. Peter reveled in the ability to move again. Quickly, before Sylar could change his mind, Peter stood and stretched his legs.
"She has nothing to do with this." Sylar sounded angry at being diverted off track. Without meaning to, Peter felt himself getting riled up as well. Now on his feet, he was still a few inches shorter than Sylar, but not considerably so.
"She has everything to do with this. She's the reason I am here."
"She was a useless dame and she is not important at the moment."
"Not important?" Peter's voice was quiet compared to Sylar's booming and commanding voice. Sylar could hear the incredulous tone in the other's speech. He couldn't stand it. This was quickly deteriorating into something he didn't want. Before either one could get anymore off point, Sylar decided to do something about it.
All the air left Peter's lungs. Whatever he was going to say was lost. He had spent the last ten minutes being pressured into the carpet, so the sensation of being weightlessly hoisted up was especially bizarre. The next sensation, however, was definitely unwelcome. His back painfully collided with the thick wooden door behind him. The force rattled up his spine and clouded his thoughts for a while. Through his hazy eyes he could see Sylar standing on the other side of the office, hand up, and his face contorted. It didn't take long for him to be directly in front of Peter again, though.
"Lets stop this futile arguing. It's getting us nowhere." Despite the anger still in his eyes, his face relaxed.
Peter's feet kicked uselessly against the wall. Somehow, Sylar was holding him above the ground. Although, Peter knew better than to question how by now. He'd seen stranger things tonight. The pressure holding him up was on his chest. When he tried to take deep breaths to steady his heart, his ribs pushed strongly against the bonds.
"Why aren't you more interested in this?" He motioned at Peter as he fruitlessly tried to twist out of the invisible grip. "Don't you wonder where all this power comes from?"
Peter endeavored to ignore Sylar, focusing instead on the pain spreading from his lungs to his head.
"Well I have wondered. A lot. And so have Ricky and Frank. You wouldn't believe the kind of person I was before this." Sylar stopped then when he noticed Peter's labored breathing. With a flick of his wrist, he lessened the hold. Peter gasped in mouthfuls of oxygen as his feet hit the ground. Something still pinned him against the door, but at least his feet were squarely on the floor now. "I was weak, unimportant, forgettable. When I walked into a room, no one batted an eyelid. But now it's different, when I enter a room everyone has no choice but to notice me, I make sure of it. I'm the most powerful man in the city." Sylar's hand found its way onto Peter's shoulder. The dried blood felt rough under his fingertips, but he didn't move it away. "And then I met you. Someone who might possibly live up to my expectations. Someone who is my equal. Someone who is as powerful as me."
Sylar's rant trailed off at that. He stood staring at Peter expectantly, obviously waiting for him to say something in response. Peter, who had stopped struggling at Sylar's mention of him, sighed. Defeated.
"I don't know what you want me to say. I haven't a clue what it going on, and I haven't all night."
A look crossed Sylar's face which Peter found hard to describe. It was a mix between anger, realization and determination. Although, it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a calm, complacent look, that didn't seem that out of place on him.
For a countless time tonight, Peter felt an indescribable force move his body. The only difference between this time and the others was the pain. Peter couldn't remember feeling anything that hurt more than this. The almost familiar tight chest, clouded vision and stifled breathing were still present, but the blinding pain traveling across his forehead was new. Someone could have been dragging a razor blade over his skin for all he knew.
Warm liquid dripped off the edge of his jaw. It mingled with the sweat forming on his brow. The salt stung the open wound. Simply breathing didn't seem to reward his with enough oxygen, so he gasped in as much as he could as fast as he could. Each thought became shorter and more frantic, until it was just incomprehensible noise. Something in his chest was building and building dramatically, before it suddenly exploded. Everything he was feeling stopped when he did. The pain, the frantic thoughts and the knot in his stomach all disappeared. Everything including his energy. Peter slumped onto the floor feeling weightless and spent.
The invisible explosion had managed to knock Sylar off his feet, he was flung across the room, crashing into the surprisingly dense desk. Peter heard the sickening crack, even in his state.
However, this didn't keep Sylar down for long. In seconds, he was on his feet again, sporting a particularly deep gash on his arm and an almost child-like grin on his face. Before Peter had even taken a breath, Sylar was there crouching in front of his nearly lifeless body.
"See, what did I tell you. We're special. We're powerful. Just think of the damage we could do to the world. We'd be unstoppable." Sylar's voice had dropped to a basic whisper. His hands shifted from steadying himself on the floor to grasping Peter's neck.
Peter had enough energy still left in him to flinch at this sudden unexpected intrusion. Though, when he realized there didn't seem to be a malicious threat behind the gesture, he allowed the calloused hands to tilt his head up to meet Sylar's gaze. His only reaction to the closeness between them was to blink. Sylar's eyes, from this distance, were bright and focused. Peter thought they must look different to his own red, bloodshot ones.
Peter felt Sylar's even breaths ghost across his face, and noticed how different it was to his own shallow breaths.
Peter's soft hands were clenched at his side, not even attempting to pull Sylar's calloused hands off of his neck. Nor did they react when Peter saw the confident smile on Sylar's mouth move closer to his own blood tinted, lacklustre mouth.
His fists clenched tighter when Sylar's dry lips finally connected with his own. Sylar's hand didn't stray from Peter's neck as they kissed on the office floor. Peter doubted the coppery taste of his mouth was very nice, but he didn't think it bothered Sylar because he kept running his tongue along Peter's bottom lip, while occasionally biting it causing more bitter tasting liquid to well up.
They never moved from their positions on the floor, but continued to kiss for a while, lips becoming more frantic and possessive as the seconds ticked by. They were so focused on each other that they didn't hear the approaching footsteps.
Peter was really beginning to hate having doors and walls slammed into his back, especially now when he was in a pleasant mind set, but everyone else apparently hadn't gotten the memo yet. Someone pushed open the door from the other side, consequently hitting Peter and jolting him closer to Sylar. His recently clenched hands grabbed at the black shirt coating Sylar's chest for balance. Sylar instinctively leaned back before Peter collided with him, saving them from the pain of head-butting each other.
"Boss? You okay?" One of the goons asked after hearing a quiet cry of surprise at opening the door. Sylar stood, stretching his legs and holding out a hand to pull Peter up as well. Peter noted that Sylar looked taller than he had before, now that he was standing very close and even leaning slightly against his lean figure to steady himself.
"I'm fine Ricky, there's no reason to worry."
The door opened fully, now that there were no obstructions, and the larger goon walked hesitantly into the office. He scanned the droplets of blood on the floor near where he stood and the demolished desk, then looked back at Sylar with a dubious expression on his face.
"Are you sure sir?"
Sylar huffed loudly, pulling away from Peter's weight and straightening his jacket.
"Of course I am. Do you think I can't look after myself?"
Ricky risked a glance at Peter. There was more blood on him than he had saw when he left, and the look on his face was more vacant than before. Sylar followed Ricky's eyes towards Peter. His face was blushing red and there was a lot of blood coating him. Sylar was surprised at the lack of blood that had rubbed off on him.
Obviously feeling the gazes directed at him, Peter snapped out of the world he had disappeared into. His head bobbed between Sylar and Ricky as they both continued to stare back at him. Then, as if an electrical current had run through him, his body jumped into action. He marched across the room towards the door, stopping only when he realized Ricky was standing in the doorway.
Even without words, the next exchange happened smoothly. Ricky looked at Sylar, silently asking, "What should I do?", to which all Sylar answered with was a nod. Ricky's next look was a skeptical one, simply asking, "Really?", to which Sylar, once again, answered with a nod, though this one was more forceful. Ricky finally relented and moved out of the doorway and further into the office.
Peter didn't turn back as he walked through the door, but he did stop when he heard Sylar speak.
"She owed me money." Ricky shot his boss a confused look, but didn't dare say anything. "This Eva dame, she owed a lot of money, but had no means to pay it. I guess the pressure finally got to her one night, then the next morning the feds find her face down in the drink. I'm sure it wasn't hard to dig up her background, so all the feds did was add two and two to get five instead of four. They do that a lot when I'm involved."
Peter continued to look ahead as he left, but he kept an eye on his surroundings because he figured he'd be back here again soon.
Ricky watched Sylar, as he in turn watched Peter leave the office.
"I'm sorry I interrupted you earlier boss."
Sylar tore his eyes away from the door to send Ricky an exasperated glare.
"You didn't interrupt me, you fool. Super sensitive hearing, remember?" He tapped his ear to exaggerate his point. All Ricky had in response was a soft "Oh."
Sylar rounded the upturned desk, stooping to retrieve the miraculously undamaged fedora from the debris.
"Now clear this up. We're bound to get the cops sniffing around soon, and they won't be so easy to persuade."