Chapter Six
After he said goodnight to Karen, Matt went back to the office and prepared for the Estrada hearing, just as he said he was going to do. But his night's work wasn't finished.
An hour later, Daredevil was lurking in the back room of Turk Barrett's shop, breathing in the pervasive smell of gun oil.
"Oh, man," Turk moaned, as the red-suited figure emerged from the back room. "Why you got to follow me all the way uptown? I'm a legitimate business owner. You got no call to hassle me."
"Good to see you again, too," Daredevil replied. "You wanna tell me about the business you're running out of the back room?" He jerked his head in that direction.
"C'mon, man," Turk whined, "a brother gotta make a living." A quick punch to the left side of his jaw told him that wasn't the correct answer to the question. He staggered back a few steps, rubbing his jaw, and crashed into a shelf. He managed to stay on his feet, but some of the paraphernalia on the shelf fell to the floor and shattered.
"Try again," Daredevil told him in a low voice. "Sell any Tec-9s recently?"
"You know I can't tell you that, man. My business is con-fi-den-tial."
"Wrong answer."
A flurry of punches landed on Turk's midsection. He doubled over and went down. "Please," Turk begged. "She'll kill me."
Daredevil ignored his plea. "You really want to do this the hard way?" He raised his fist.
"OK, OK," Turk said. "Tec-9s, you said?"
"Yeah."
"Sold a few of those . . . ."
"Who were the buyers?"
"Only one – Rosalie Carbone." Turk managed to sit up, slumped against the front of a display case. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, Daredevil was gone.
It was almost noon when Matt finally left the courtroom after the Estrada hearing. He hated it when his case was the last one on the calendar. At least the judge had ruled in favor of his client, even if His Honor didn't seem to understand the facts or the law. He shrugged. He'd take it. As soon as he reached the corridor, he pulled out his phone to call Karen. Straight to voicemail. He frowned and ended the call, then called Foggy.
"Franklin Nelson."
"Hey, Foggy, it's me. You at the office?"
"Yes."
"Is Karen there?"
"No."
"She's not answering her phone."
"Let me check." Matt heard the click of the keys as Foggy pulled up the firm calendar on his computer. "She's supposed to be interviewing a witness in the McNeal case. She should be back soon." The phone on Karen's desk rang. "Hang on a minute, buddy, I gotta get that."
"Nelson & Murdock . . . She's not here at the moment . . . She's not? . . . I don't know . . . I'm sorry for the inconvenience . . . ." The receiver clattered back into its cradle.
Foggy picked up his cell phone. "You hear that?"
"Your end."
"She didn't show for her interview. Mrs. Halloran is pissed."
A knot began to form in Matt's stomach. "I don't care about Mrs. Halloran. Where is Karen?"
"No clue. But she wouldn't not show up for an appointment like that."
"No, she wouldn't. Meet me at her place."
Matt ended the call and left the courthouse at a near run. To hell with his cover. As soon as possible, he took to the rooftops, sprinting across them and leaping recklessly from building to building. He didn't care about the risk. He had to get to Karen's, and this way was faster than a cab in the traffic-choked streets. He finally reached Karen's building and swung down the fire escape. He entered her apartment through a window. Foggy was already waiting outside the door. Matt took a moment to catch his breath, then let him in. "She's not here," he said.
Foggy spotted the overturned chair and the water bottle. "Oh, no. This looks bad."
Matt nodded. He'd noticed them, too. He tapped the floor with his foot. "There should be an area rug here."
"I don't see it anywhere," Foggy told him. "But her purse is on the kitchen table."
Matt went to the kitchen and reached into the purse, feeling its contents. "Her phone is here. Her gun, too." He pulled the phone out and handed it to Foggy.
After a moment, Foggy reported, "No outgoing calls or texts this morning. Only incoming calls this morning were you and Mrs. Halloran. No incoming or outgoing calls last night after 8 o'clock. You weren't with her last night?"
"No." The knot in Matt's stomach grew tighter. He sat down on the couch and buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God, oh, God, Karen."
Foggy pulled out his phone and started to dial. Matt heard and raised his head. "Who're you calling?"
"Brett Mahoney."
Matt reached out and put a hand on Foggy's forearm. "Not yet."
"What?"
"We need to search the place first and find what she was working on. We don't want the cops getting their hands on anything privileged, or anything that could help us find her."
Foggy nodded. "Good point. I'll check her desk." Matt ran his hands over the items on the coffee table. "There's nothing there," Foggy told him. "And we should be careful – about fingerprints, you know."
Matt smiled grimly. "As far as the cops are concerned, I'm Karen's blind boyfriend. They'll expect my fingerprints to be everywhere. A few more won't make any difference."
"Yeah, I guess so," Foggy admitted. "But if someone broke in, he could've left fingerprints. We don't want to mess those up."
"You're right," Matt conceded. He went into the kitchen and rummaged around under the sink. He returned with a package of rubber gloves. "I'll check the bedroom." He pulled on a pair of gloves and handed the package to Foggy.
A few minutes later, Matt emerged from the bedroom with Karen's laptop. "You find anything?" he asked as he set the computer down on the coffee table.
Foggy held up a few file folders. "Just these. They're things we already know about, notes from witness interviews, police reports, stuff like that." He stuffed them into his briefcase, along with the laptop.
Matt held up a hand. "Wait a minute before you call Mahoney." He went back to the kitchen, reached into Karen's purse, and pulled out a small spiral notebook. "Her reporter's notebook." He handed it to Foggy.
Foggy opened it and began to read. He flipped through several pages, then stopped. "Son of a bitch."
"What is it?"
"Her notes from the interview with that profiler, you know, the one who profiled the guy who's been killing the prostitutes."
"And – ?"
"She's highlighted some of the words he used to describe the killer – like "psychopath," "loner," "incapable," "mommy issues," "coward."
"They're in the article, too. I read it."
"Shit," Foggy said, "it's like she was trying to provoke him."
"Yep," Matt said grimly. "That's exactly what she was doing."
"Jesus," Foggy breathed. "You think so?"
"This is Karen we're talking about, Fog."
"Yeah. Right."
Matt picked up a book from the coffee table and slammed it to the floor. "Goddamnit, Karen, goddamnit."
Foggy dialed Brett's number. Matt didn't stop him.