Chapter Ten: Dead Ends
Lamont parked his sedan and walked up the precinct steps, ignoring the rain. Interviewing that poor lost schmuck Osborn had been a waste of time. That kid needed to pull his head out and look around. The few facts in Osborn's conspiracy theory backed up what Lamont already knew about Fisk but didn't get him any further. Now, his friend, that Parker boy, had been nervous, but the detective thought he had that taped. He knew Parker took photographs of Spider-Man for the Bugle. He was willing to bet the boy saw the vigilante hanging around Osborn's that night and was trying to protect him—kid was the right age for that kind of idiotic, idealistic hero-worship. Sighing, Lamont reached the top of the steps and ran his hand over his wet hair. Keep Parker in mind, but it's probably nothing. Another dead end.
As Lamont reached for the handle, the precinct door swung open, and he found himself looking into a pair of white eyes tinged with blue. "Mr. Young," Lamont said politely, stepping back.
"Detective Lamont," the ex-senator replied in his whispery voice. Lamont knew the damaged eyes and voice were both reminders of the night ten years before when Joshua Young's Washington home had burned to the ground, killing his wife and family. It didn't make him any less creepy. Not too long ago, he thought uncharitably, you could go to work without meeting oddballs everywhere. Young smiled kindly and stepped back himself, motioning Lamont in out of the rain. "How nice to run into you. I was just applauding Captain Spence for his officers' quick work in rescuing me from that maniac."
Spence, in fact, was standing just behind Young and grinning broadly. "Yes, indeed. Detective Lamont has proved a wise choice for his new position. We are only sorry, senator, that you came to harm in our fair city." Could you lay it on any thicker? Lamont silently griped.
"I am sure I will soon read in the papers that your fine men have arrested that costumed menace. And, please, captain, it's no longer senator." Young's polished modesty was charming, but Lamont noted cynically that he shifted his broken hand, immobilized in plaster, in front of him, where it couldn't be missed. As if the bruise on your chin wasn't getting you enough pity. "I must be going—I was just released from the hospital this morning—but I had to come by to express my gratitude." He nodded to Lamont and Spence jumped forward to hold the door for him. On impulse, Lamont called after the elderly man.
"Mr. Young?"
"Yes?"
"Forgive my curiosity, but I couldn't help notice the unusual cape you were wearing when we, ah, met." Lamont innocently met Young's eyes. "May I ask where you got it?"
Joshua Young straightened his thin form to its full height, his face solemn. "It was a gift from one of my wife's relatives, after she passed on," he said with dignity. "I wear it...in her memory."
Captain Spence frowned quickly at his subordinate and then turned a sympathetic expression on the former politician. "I am sorry, Mr. Young. I'm sure Detective Lamont didn't intend to bring up a painful subject."
Young nodded and moved quickly down the damp steps to his waiting taxi. Spence watched him leave, his hands clasped behind his back. "Let me give you some friendly advice, Lamont," he said quietly. "Young may not be an elected official anymore, but he has influence where it counts. Don't mess up the good work you've done so far by barking up the wrong tree."
"Yes, sir." Spence clapped him on the shoulder and walked briskly back toward his office. Lamont stood in the precinct entryway, dripping on the linoleum. And that was a warning not to listen to freaky wall-crawlers. There's no evidence, nothing to connect Young with the school killings and only Spider-Man's word that he attacked Osborn, all this crazy Cheap Shot crap . If he investigated Young, Spence would be all over him. Lamont stared down at his wet shoes. Problem is, much as I hate to admit it...I believe the freak.
"Hey, Detective!" A dispatching sergeant hollered at him from behind the front counter. "There's a call out for you to get down to Macy's. Bomb threat."
"Yeah? Why me?"
"Guy in a costume, got a bunch of hostages. No one's sure what his deal is, super-powered or not, so they want you." The sergeant grimaced in commiseration. "Sorry about sending you back out in the rain."
Lamont grunted. "We're all underpaid."
"Hi!" Mary Jane chirped at the man who opened the door. "I was looking for Pete, ah, is he here?"
Bernard ran an assessing eye over her and apparently decided in her favor. "Please come in, Miss. Mr. Parker is currently away but I can relay a message."
Mary Jane stepped into the imposing entry hall, caught off guard by the rich, gloomy decoration. Harry lives here? It's like Dracula's castle. She realized her mouth was open and closed it quickly. "Well, I wanted to give him back the key to his aunt's house," she said. And I was curious about Harry's place. Sue me. "So, I guess you could...do you have any idea when he'll be back?"
"No, miss," Bernard said. "If you—"
"Bernard! Have you seen my—" Harry, pattering down the front stairs, stopped dead as he spotted MJ in her bright yellow rain poncho. "MJ!"
"Hi, Harry," Mary Jane said timidly. "I hope you don't mind, I just came by to drop off Aunt May's key..."
Harry came the rest of the way down. "Of course I don't mind. You're welcome here anytime, you know. I'd like to think we can still be friends."
"Yeah, me too," MJ said, relieved. Bernard had faded tactfully from the room. Harry stood undecided at the foot of the stairs for a moment. "So, um, you want to come in? Can I get you anything?" He waved vaguely at a door behind her.
"Oh, no, I'm fine." Mary Jane glanced around, smiling, and searched her mind desperately. OK, what do you say to your ex-boyfriend you have nothing to say to, what do you say... "I, ah, I heard you had some trouble a couple of nights ago, Peter...uh, Peter was telling me about it." She turned pink.
"Yeah. Spider-Man tried to kill me," Harry said. He raised his chin and crossed his arms, as if he was daring her to contradict him.
"Oh. I...Peter didn't say that."
"Well, I think Peter's starting to change his mind about that lunatic. I guess all it took was him being attacked, too." Harry sounded bitter. "But he backed me up when I told the police about it. Not that they listened."
MJ said slowly, "You mean, he wanted you to report Spider-Man to the police?"
"Yep. Hey, whatever he used on us was scary. Peter was knocked flat by it too. Betcha he stops going around taking pictures of the bug." Harry hugged himself tighter and seemed to be smiling at some inner joke.
Mary Jane frowned, opening her mouth and closing it again. Then she blurted, "So, Pete was here? All the time? I mean, you saw him?"
Harry said, "Well, duh." Impatiently, he went on. "The police are incompetent, entirely incompetent. Spider-Man has been running around New York like he owns the place for months and they don't have a clue. Do they even know how many people he's killed? Do they even care? I swear, if this keeps up, I'm going to take matters in to my own hands."
Mary Jane wasn't listening. "Right, um, yeah, I know. Um, Harry, I need to take off, I've...got an audition, I just wanted to drop this off." She pulled the key out of her purse and lifted the poncho enough to drop it into her ex-boyfriend's hand. "Just, um, tell him to let me know when Aunt May gets out of the hospital." MJ backed up to the front door and pulled it open, shouting "Well, bye!" before she dived through, leaving Harry with a startled expression as she escaped the mansion.
I have never felt more stupid in my entire life, Mary Jane thought, as she boarded the bus. I've known Peter all my life, practically. Remember all the times you had PE together, girl? What did you think, that he turned into some kind of super-athlete overnight? She settled into an empty seat and pressed her forehead against the window. And does it really matter?
Mary Jane's throat was tight and her eyes burned. God, am I that shallow? Am I that disappointed that Peter isn't...special? She brushed at her wet face, angry with herself. No, I'm not. It matters, because I thought it was why he pushed me away...I didn't want to believe...that maybe he just doesn't love me.
The Kingpin settled his bulk back in his chair, taking his time getting comfortable. Cheap Shot, dressed in that ridiculous gold cape, waited in the chair in front of the desk, betraying no impatience for Fisk to begin. Letting his eyes roam over his two associates, one neatly positioned by the door and one sitting near the wall behind Cheap Shot, Fisk grunted in satisfaction turned his attention to the matter at hand.
"I understand that Osborn has not been taken care of, Mr. Young," Fisk said.
Cheap Shot chuckled under his breath at the use of his real name. "Naturally, you have your sources within the police force," he whispered.
"Naturally." Fisk fingered his diamond-topped cane, resting on the desk in front of him. "My estimation of you has certainly...dropped. Osborn is capable of causing problems for the Consensus Project, if he puts his mind to it. I believe he has already spoken with the police. I keep my operations quiet, Mr. Young, for a reason. Nor do I hire enforcers who can be foiled by attention-seeking semi-humans in tights."
"The project will continue as planned. What can anyone do to stop it? Your worry over Osborn has always been excessive. Nothing will stand in the way." Cheap Shot folded his arms, tucking his damaged hand out of sight.
Fisk's eyes narrowed in his fleshy face at the arrogance and contempt in Cheap Shot's voice. "It seems Spider-Man stopped you, with considerable ease. I thought you had a talent for unnoticed approaches. How did he manage to outmaneuver you?" he asked, letting his amusement show.
"He was lucky," Cheap Shot replied dismissively. The Kingpin regarded him thoughtfully and came to the conclusion that the assassin didn't know the answer to his question. That was dangerous. What Spider-Man had done once, he might do again. Cheap Shot was too wrapped up in his vision of future glory to understand the risks of underestimating an enemy.
"You are, of course, right about one thing," Fisk said smoothly. "The project will continue as planned. It is in place, the devices prepared and waiting for distribution. In fact, I can't help but ask myself: what need is there for your further inept involvement?"
Cheap Shot made a sudden movement, as if to rise, but quieted immediately at the feel of a cold metal barrel pressed into the side of his head. The blond man who had been sitting silently behind Cheap Shot pushed the gun confidently against the gold hood. Fisk's second associate at the door moved to block it, his meaty hand dwarfing the gun he held.
Fisk tightened his lips in surprise as Cheap Shot began to laugh. The dry, harsh chuckle continued as the men with guns exchanged uncertain looks, shifting in place. Fisk slammed one hand hard into his desk and the laughter stopped.
Cheap Shot relaxed back in his chair, apparently at ease, and said, "Your sponsors have paid a great deal of money for their advertising and have high expectations. Are you going to disappoint them?"
"Explain," Fisk commanded tersely.
"Quite simple. The Consensus Project is mine, not yours, and I have no intention of allowing you control over it. I have programmed each device to function only when receiving a code broadcast on a uncommon frequency. When the devices in the schools receive the correct signal, they will transmit electromagnetic waves on the correct frequency to create a state of suggestive hypnosis in the students' young minds. The children will accept all that they hear or see as undeniable truths. As an unimportant side effect, this will create an overwhelming need for your advertisers' products in their little brains."
Cheap Shot leaned forward, his face still hidden by the hood of his rustling cape. "Of course, if I fail—for whatever reason—to broadcast the code, your advertisers will have graciously donated large amounts to help New York's troubled education system, without the substantial return you have led them to expect."
Fisk remained motionless for several heartbeats. Then he smiled slowly. "I see. In that case, I believe our partnership must...go on."
Cheap Shot rose to his feet and bent his head in a mocking bow. "Indeed." He turned to leave and was stopped by the muscular guard at the door. At Fisk's nod, the man holstered his gun under his arm and moved to one side.
Cheap Shot stepped briskly into the doorway, but then paused and, with a swirl of metallic cloth, looked back at the Kingpin. "Of course, with all the good people innocently involved in distributing the curriculum and its...accessories, I wonder—would everything go ahead as planned, even if you were...unable to supervise it?" Fisk made no answer, and Cheap Shot laughed again and left.
For a long time, Wilson Fisk sat at his desk, considering his next move. He knew a declaration of war when he heard it.
Lamont stood by an elegant column on the main floor of Macy's, part of the semi-circle formed by the SWAT team, members of the bomb squad, and police. Racks of clothing and displays had been roughly moved aside to give a clear line-of-sight to the hostages hemmed in against the wall, under the overhanging balcony. The SWAT team officers overlooked the area from the second floor, and were positioned under the stairs curving down on each side of the area, their rifles at the ready but unable to get a clear shot without endangering hostages. Standing in front of the frightened retail clerks and unlucky customers was the bomber, grey plastique and colorful wires strapped around his belly, aggressively waving the detonator switch and shouting.
"That much plastique is enough to bring the ceiling down, at least," said Lt. Roth in a low voice, setting his hands on his wide hips. "Not to mention what it'll do to anyone within a twenty-foot radius.
Lamont grunted his comprehension. Roth had been an expert with the bomb squad for over fifteen years; Lamont took his estimate seriously. "Any chance of taking him down before he triggers it?"
Roth shook his head and rubbed a handkerchief over his bald head. "Good old dead-man's switch. If he lifts his finger off that button, everything goes up. Keep anyone from doing anything stupid, like shooting him." Roth sighed briefly.
"Listen to me! Come on, I'll do it!" the bomber shouted. "I want a helicopter, and a color TV, and a couple hundred thousand, in cash, and a public apology from all you jerks!" He swung the switch in his hand wildly, and a couple of cops stepped back nervously. The switch, a small metal cylinder, had a red button at the top, held down by the bomber's thumb. If his thumb slipped during one of his panicked gestures, releasing that little red button, the Daily Bugle and the other city rags would have sensational headlines tomorrow. "I mean it, you better believe I mean it!" he added hysterically. "And I want a carton of cheese!"
Cautiously, Lamont raised his hands and stepped in front of the gathered officers. "Easy now, just take it easy," he said calmly. "We're listening, we're all here to listen."
"Is this a bad time?" Spider-Man—perched on the railing halfway up the right-hand stairway—called down to Lamont. Two SWAT officers near the stairs jumped back and gaped upward. Lamont closed his eyes and took a deep breath, but whatever he was about to say was overridden by the bomber.
"Spider-Man!" the bomber yelled, actually jumping up and down in excitement. "Awesome, awesome! I am such a fan of yours, man!"
Spider-Man turned his head to the bomber and stared, apparently taken aback. "Tell me I'm seeing things. Who—or what—are you supposed to be?"
The bomber chuckled proudly and stroked his ear with the hand not holding the detonator. The ears were large, round, and resting precariously on top of his head. Like the rest of his brown costume, they were obviously homemade. The tail was a piece of dirty rope sewn onto the drooping butt of the suit with huge white stitches. The bomber's culminating act of genius had been to plant a red rubber novelty nose in the middle of his face. The sagging cloth of his suit was bunched up by blocks of gluey plastique tied firmly around his generous middle.
"Not bad, right?" he smirked. "I've had enough of people walking all over me, I said I've had enough!" he shouted, pointing the switch threateningly at the cops on his other side before shifting his paranoid eyes back to Spider-Man. "I'm getting the respect I deserve, respect for RATSBANE!" he waved both arms out to the side and bowed melodramatically.
"Ratsbane? What's next? Lice? Scorpions?" the wall-crawler joked. Ratsbane frowned, working his way through the sarcasm.
Lamont growled, "Yeah, the vermin in this city are out of control."
"Hey—" said Spider-Man and Ratsbane, in unison.
"Spider-Man, get lost. Now." Lamont turned back toward the rodent bomber, still showing his palms non-threateningly.
"Is it just me, Detective, or are you always in the middle of weird situations?" Spider-Man asked.
"I've had it with you, you know that?" Lamont snapped.
"Hey, man with a bomb here?" Ratsbane inserted, irritated at losing his audience. The dozen or so armed officers were looking from Spider-Man to Lamont to the bomber, bemused.
Spider-Man lifted one hand and the next second Ratsbane was staring in shock at silvery goop covering the end of his arm. It took the hostages and on-looking officers a second or two to realize that Ratsbane could no longer release the detonator switch. Then Ratsbane disappeared under four members of the bomb squad, who knocked him down and threw heavy lead-filled blankets on top of him while other officers moved in to get the hostages clear. Lamont heard Ratsbane squealing in protest, but all he could see of him was the end of his tail.
Spider-Man, balanced easily on the two-inch railing of the stairway, leaned an elbow against one knee and propped his chin on his hand. "So, now do you have a minute?"
Lamont rubbed wearily at his eyes and moved back to lean against a column. "It's not a joke, you know. Grandstanding around like that...what if he'd set the bomb off before you could stop him?"
"There wasn't any danger of that."
"What, you're psychic?"
"Well, as a matter of fact...yeah, kinda. I know there wasn't any danger here. I didn't mean to make anyone nervous..." Spider-Man shrugged. "I just knew he wasn't really a threat."
Lamont sighed and knocked his head back against the column. "So, what did you want?"
"Do you know anything new about the whole curriculum thing?"
"Not anything you haven't covered. I've been reading over the curriculum itself—standard stuff: math, reading, bunch of cute little cartoon characters saying things like 'just say no', 'love the earth', 'look both ways before you cross the street'." Lamont watched as Ratsbane was hauled to his feet, minus the bomb. "And a bunch of ads."
The wall-crawler dug at the waist of his costume and produced a small black box. "This is the device I took off of Cheap Shot," he said. "I checked it out. It produces electromagnetic waves at rare frequencies. It can do a lot of things, depending on the frequency you choose. It caused Osborn and the others to hallucinate and would have killed them if I hadn't stopped it." Spider-Man tossed the box to Lamont. "But at a different frequency, it can cause suggestibility. Aimed at the kids at school, it would make them want to buy whatever was advertised to them."
"Hell, they've been doing that for years. It's called TV," Lamont snorted, turning the box over in his hands.
"Consider this the next generation of advertising technology," Spider-Man said grimly. "They must be planting transmitters like this in the schools."
"Or handing them out. Like say, in calculators?"
"Or even hidden in backpacks? Yeah, could be."
Lt. Roth came up, clearing his throat and hitching his pants up. "Sorry to interrupt." To Lamont's surprise, he nodded politely to Spider-Man. "Thought you might want to know. Guy was a complete flake. It was play dough, not plastique."
"Son of a—," Lamont said, and sighed. "Thanks. Nice to know we weren't really flirting with death there." Roth chuckled, slapped Lamont on the back, nodded again to Spider-Man and headed out with his team. Lamont looked at the vigilante speculatively. "Guess you were right."
"Well, like I said."
Lamont stared at the small box in his hands for a long moment and then tossed it back to the wall-crawler. "So where does that get us? A respected philanthropist is handing out books and school supplies. Without a shred of real evidence, we're supposed to shut him down? How?"
Spider-Man was silent. After a pause he said slowly, "You have to have gotten Cheap Shot's ID the night I brought him to the precinct."
"Yeah." the detective said curtly. "So? He's clean—in the eyes of the law. You expect me to hand out his name and address to a wanted vigilante? What for? So you can kill him? Beat a confession out of him? What kind of cop do you think I am?"
Jumping lightly down to stand in front of Lamont, Spider-Man said seriously, "A good one."
Lamont took a deep breath. "Well." He looked up. "If you get any bright ideas, let me know, because I'm all out."
A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed, I appreciate it knowing what you liked, what you got—what you didn't get. You are great readers.
Thank you, Emily and Tinderblast for keeping me up-to-date on Lamont's appearances in the comics.
Thank you, Badgerlock, for overcoming your reluctance to review and leaving me such a detailed, helpful commentary. Fantastic! And yes, Cheap Shot is an OC.