Chapter 4 – The Artist
There: Matt
Matt spent the next several days going over everything he'd learned about this universe's Vanessa, reconsidering it in light of his meeting with her. She had been part of the art world for a couple of decades, never staying long in one place – a gallery manager in San Francisco, curator of a small museum's collection in Madrid, just to name a few. She was known in that world, but not in its top tier, not one of the few people who could make or break an artist's career. The people who knew her in that world claimed to be shocked by her marriage to Fisk, but Matt thought that was solely for public consumption.
The information he found abut Vanessa had a disturbing undercurrent, a whiff of something unsavory following her as she made her way from gallery to gallery, from exhibition to exhibition. There was at least one instance when she allegedly failed to do her due diligence about the provenance of a painting that was stolen by the Nazis from its rightful owners in 1939. Matt searched but couldn't find any details; the incident, like so much connected to Fisk, had mostly been scrubbed from the record. Still, it hinted that, as Rand had told him, Vanessa was someone who would be attracted to Fisk's ruthless exercise of power. Yet something had changed. Maybe it wasn't Vanessa. Maybe Fisk had gone too far, even for her.
Matt turned his attention to Fisk. It wasn't easy to find information that hadn't been manipulated to support his public persona as "the man who saved Hell's Kitchen." But there were a few stories that Fisk hadn't been able to remove completely from the records. They painted a very different portrait of Fisk, one which Matt knew was much closer to the truth. The reporters and editors who broke those stories were quickly discredited by Fisk, using the media outlets he controlled. But the stories were still there, if you knew where to look. Matt soon figured out how to find them.
In this world, unlike in Matt's own, Fisk had succeeded in consolidating his control over the City's crime bosses. All of them paid a hefty percentage of their income, in exchange for Fisk's protection from investigations and prosecutions. The only defector was dealt with swiftly and brutally. The boss of The Bronx, a man named Starr, talked to the District Attorney there. Rashly, he refused to go into hiding and was gunned down in the driveway of his Riverdale mansion, when he was returning from his morning run. Fisk had gotten to the police captain in charge of Starr's protective detail, using threats against his college-age daughter. A demonstration of Fisk's ruthlessness, to be sure. But Matt doubted it was what had turned Vanessa against him – if she had in fact turned. The Vanessa he knew – and, he thought, this world's Vanessa – would not shrink from eliminating a threat. And Starr was definitely a threat. No, it had to be something else.
Finally, after two days of searching, he thought he'd found it: a gruesome incident that even Fisk couldn't suppress. Twenty-three young women and girls had been found dead in a shipping container, left there to die during an unseasonable heat wave. The low-level human trafficker who was supposed to deliver them to a house in Brooklyn was picked up for a parole violation on his way to the docks. It didn't occur to him to call his boss, who forgot about the "shipment" until it was too late. The sickening discovery was a three-day sensation, before the attention of the media and the public shifted to a new outrage. The incident was never explicitly linked to Fisk, but Matt could see his handwriting all over it. It had happened six months ago, around the time when Rand thought Vanessa had turned against her husband. It might have been the tipping point for her. Now Matt had to figure out how to use this knowledge.
He was still uncertain about his approach when her call came, three days after his visit to the gallery. The artist who created portraits with Phillips head screws had agreed to see him and Vanessa the next day. Matt and Vanessa would meet at her gallery and go to the artist's studio together.
When Matt walked into the gallery the next morning, the same large security guard was at his post next to the door. This time, he introduced himself as "Ernest" and led Matt to an office at the back of the building. He knocked on the office door. Someone inside said, "Enter." Ernest opened the door, then stepped back to let Matt enter the room, before closing the door behind him. Matt took a few steps, then stopped. Vanessa was seated at her desk, but she wasn't alone. Someone was with her: a man, standing behind her. He was leaning forward, apparently looking over her shoulder at something. Papers rustled. He said something about profits. A wristwatch ticked. Matt's heart rate shot up. His mouth was dry. The man must be James Wesley. Damn. He wanted to meet Wesley, of course, but not yet. He wasn't ready, didn't have a plan. He would have to wing it. He took a deep breath and swallowed.
"Oh, uh, sorry," Matt stammered, feigning confusion. "I, um, I didn't mean to interrupt – "
"It's all right," Vanessa told him. "We were expecting you. Please, come in."
Matt made his way across the room and stood next to Vanessa's desk. She made the introductions: "Michael Murdock, James Wesley."
Wesley came out from behind the desk to shake hands. As they did so, Matt focused on the other man, but all he could pick up was mild curiosity, revealed by a slight uptick in his heart rate.
"A pleasure to meet you," Wesley was saying. "Mrs. Fisk has told me of your interest in the tactile art. And Dr. Rand's, of course. Your, ah, perspective on the works must be invaluable to him."
"You could say that," Matt murmured.
Vanessa picked up a stack of papers and handed them to Wesley. "We'll finish up later," she said. "Mr. Murdock and I should be going. Mr. Russman doesn't like to be kept waiting."
"Of course," Wesley said. "I shall await your return." He turned and walked out of the office.
Vanessa got to her feet and walked around the desk to stand next to Matt. "Shall we?" she asked.
Matt took hold of her arm. "Lead on."
Outside, the heat was oppressive, as it had been every day since Matt's arrival. Vanessa didn't seem to notice it. Had people become acclimated to it, or simply resigned?
It was only a few steps to the car that was waiting for them at the curb. Ernest was behind the wheel. Matt climbed into the back seat, next to Vanessa, grateful for the blast of cool air from the vents. Vanessa gave Ernest the artist's address, and they drove away. Matt had hoped for a chance to talk to Vanessa on the way to the artist's studio, but the security man's presence limited what he could say. Finally, he settled on a safe subject.
"This artist we're going to see . . . Russman, you said his name is . . . what's he like?" he asked. "I mean, I've been wondering what kind of a person makes art with Phillips head screws."
Vanessa chuckled softly. "He's definitely one of a kind," she replied. "But I'll let you decide for yourself."
"The 'artistic temperament,' huh?"
"Something like that."
Before Matt could figure out how to continue the conversation, the car turned toward the curb and came to a stop. "We're here," Ernest announced. He opened the rear door for Vanessa, and Matt followed her out onto the sidewalk.
"You don't need to wait," Vanessa told the security man, "I'll call you when we're ready to leave."
"Yes, ma'am." Ernest got back in the car and drove away.
Vanessa guided Matt into a building that felt like the old Hell's Kitchen, the one he knew. The odors of mold and mildew were embedded in the walls, along with traces of the meals cooked there over many decades. They climbed the stifling stairwell to the top floor, where Vanessa knocked on the only door opening off the landing. Then they waited. Muttered curses came from inside the apartment. Vanessa started to leave, but Matt held up a hand. "I think someone's coming," he said.
The door opened, and the man behind it exclaimed, "Vanessa, my dear!" His deep, booming voice was uncomfortably loud in Matt's sensitive ears.
"You forgot we were coming, didn't you?" Vanessa asked. Matt could hear her smile in her voice.
"Never!" the man exclaimed. (He was lying.) "And who is this?"
Matt stepped forward and held out his hand. "Michael Murdock."
The other man waved his hand around, searching for Matt's hand, and finally found it. "George Morgan Russman, at your service," he said formally as he shook Matt's hand. "Come in, come in." Russman's grip was warm and dry, his heartbeat steady, but Matt could hear wheezing when he breathed. He was a few inches shorter than Matt, with a stocky build. When he spoke to Matt or Vanessa, he kept his head turned slightly, instead of facing them. Matt wasn't sure of the reason for this. Maybe it had something to do with the visual impairment Vanessa had mentioned.
Russman stepped aside to allow his guests to enter, and Vanessa guided Matt into the apartment. On the far side of the room, an air conditioner chugged, dripping water onto the floor. But it managed to push out cool air, a relief after the sweltering heat of the stairwell. Chemical smells, probably paints and solvents, filled Matt's nose, along with tiny particles of wood dust. Probably the reason for Russman's wheezing. He sneezed.
"Sorry about that," Russman said. "Occupational hazard of the artistic life." He walked over to a couch and sat down. Dust flew up. Matt suppressed another sneeze. He and Vanessa sat on chairs facing Russman. The coffee table between them consisted of a door, resting on an oddly-shaped metal base. Probably another of Russman's works, Matt guessed.
"So, you're interested in my tactile art?" Russman asked.
"I am," Matt confirmed.
"Vanessa tells me you're blind."
Matt nodded. Then, uncertain how much the other man could see, he said, "Yes."
"Born that way?"
He matched Russman's clipped tone. "No. Accident. When I was nine."
"Must've been tough."
Matt gave his stock answer. "You learn to live with it."
"I suppose so."
"I don't think I told you this, Michael," Vanessa said, "but George is the one who convinced me to mount the exhibition of tactile art."
"'Pestered,' more like it," Russman observed. "She was sure no one would come."
"Not true!" Vanessa protested. "But George was right. We've had more traffic in the gallery for it than for any other exhibit this year."
"There are that many visually impaired people?" Matt asked.
Vanessa shook her head. "No. Most of the customers are sighted. The works have a visual component, too, you know."
No, Matt didn't know. But it made sense. He turned to Russman and asked, "How'd you come up with the idea of using Phillips head screws?"
"You know I'm losing my sight, right?" the artist asked.
"I do."
"God damned macular degeneration," Russman grumbled. "Central vision's going. Getting old sucks."
"I'll keep that in mind," Matt told him dryly.
"But, George, consider the alternative," Vanessa protested.
"Oh, I have, my dear," the artist assured her darkly. "At my age you're all too aware of your own mortality. But to answer Michael's question, I wanted to keep working. I started piling on the paint, so I could feel what I was doing."
"Like the spirals?" Matt asked.
"Yes. That one's mine. But just adding layers of paint didn't work for what I wanted to do. I needed something that I could place at any level above the surface, to create planes and hollows. Kind of like the shading in a charcoal drawing, you know."
Matt nodded. "OK," he said slowly. The comparison to a drawing didn't mean much to him, but after "looking" at Russman's portrait of a man at the gallery, he understood what the artist was getting at. It was almost like a high-relief sculpture of the man's face, with the planes and bone structure revealed to his touch.
Russman's other work was equally inventive, as Matt discovered when the artist gave them a tour of the finished pieces in the studio. Rand would definitely be interested in some of them.
Then it was time to go. Vanessa called Ernest to come pick them up.
When she ended the call, Russman suddenly asked her, "How's that asshole husband of yours? Divorced him yet?"
Matt's eyebrows shot up.
"You know I'm a happily married woman," Vanessa told him, with a tiny jerk of her head in Matt's direction, as if reminding Russman that they weren't alone.
Russman either didn't see the head jerk or ignored it. "Yeah," he replied, "and I'm the Pope."
Matt held out his hand to the artist. "Good to meet you."
Russman found his hand and shook it. "Same here. Come back anytime."
"I'll do that." Matt turned and followed Vanessa out of the apartment.
As they walked down the stairs, Vanessa said, "You'll keep that last part of the conversation between us, won't you?"
"Of course. Your marriage is none of my business," Matt lied smoothly. "Besides, I'm a lawyer. I know how to keep my mouth shut."
"You're a lawyer?" Vanessa asked, sounding surprised.
"By training."
"But you don't practice?"
"No law firm would hire me. Don't want to make the clients uncomfortable, you know," Matt told her, not hiding the bitterness in his voice – a bitterness he was sure Michael Murdock would feel, if any of it was true.
"They actually said that?"
Matt shook his head. "No. There was always some bullshit excuse. My fellow members of the bar are very good at that kind of thing."
"Oh." Vanessa fell silent, apparently considering this. "So you work for Rand as a consultant."
"On disability issues. Gotta make a living. And I'm lucky to have a job."
They had reached the bottom of the stairs. Outside, the car was waiting for them. Vanessa started toward it, but Matt didn't follow her. She stopped and turned toward him. "Coming?" she asked.
Matt shook his head. "No. Some friends from law school have their office a few blocks from here. I thought I'd drop in on them."
"Oh. OK. But Ernest can take you there."
Matt didn't want Fisk's man to know about other-Foggy and other-Karen and where they worked. "Thanks," he said, "but I think I'll walk. I've been cooped up inside too much, lately."
"All right," Vanessa said, "but you'll need this." She reached into the car and handed him something made of cloth: a broad-brimmed hat.
"Thanks. And thanks for introducing me to Mr. Russman."
"You're welcome. And about the tactile art?"
"I'll be in touch as soon as I talk to Dr. Rand." Matt put on the hat and walked away.
Matt could barely contain his excitement as he walked along the sidewalk. Vanessa lied when she said she was happily married. Her heartbeat gave her away. And he now had a way to gain Vanessa's trust: Russman. There was a history there, and she trusted him enough to talk to him about her marriage. Matt could parlay her trust in Russman into trusting him. But first he had to gain the artist's trust. Well, he had a standing invitation to return. Russman hadn't seen the last of him. And he needed to work on Vanessa at the same time. Other-Foggy and other-Karen could help with that.
Here: Foggy
"Foggy!" Karen's raised voice carried a sense of urgency. Foggy scrambled to his feet and hurried to her office.
"What? Is it Matt?"
"No," Karen replied. "Well, kind of." She gestured to him to come closer. He circled her desk and stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at the article from the New York Bulletin's website that was on the screen of her laptop.
DAREDEVIL: MIA?
Special Report to the Bulletin
By T. J. Mason
Hell's Kitchen's own vigilante, Daredevil, has not been spotted fighting crime in the midtown neighborhood in the past ten days, and area residents are starting to wonder. Sources at the NYPD's 15th Precinct have confirmed to the Bulletin that recent crime victims have not reported being saved by Daredevil, and suspects are not voicing their usual complaints about the vigilante's interference with their criminal activities.
This reporter traveled to George's Coffee Shop at West 51st Street and Tenth Avenue, to sample public opinion on the vigilante and his apparent absence. The following comments by Hell's Kitchen residents were typical.
"He's probably just taking a break. God knows, he deserves a vacation. He'll be back." – Jessica Rodriguez, 30
"He's one of us. Hell's Kitchen needs him." – Tim Brennan, 27
"Nothing against the NYPD, but the cops can't be everywhere. Daredevil, I don't know how, but he always seems to know when someone is in trouble, and he always shows up to help." – Louis Conway, 53
"Last year, I was walking home from the subway after a late shift at Metro-General. Two punks grabbed me and dragged me into an alley. I don't have to tell you what they had in mind. Daredevil took care of them. The cops showed up, too, but they wouldn't have gotten there in time to stop . . . well, you know what." – Mary Donovan, 46
One customer, who declined to give his name, expressed a minority opinion: "The guy's a common thug who gets off on beating up on people. As far as I'm concerned, he can stay gone. If he comes back, I hope the cops get him."
Bulletin readers, what's your opinion? Do you want Daredevil to return? Is he a help or hindrance to law enforcement in Hell's Kitchen? Whatever your opinion, be sure to report any Daredevil sightings on our tip line: (646) 555-DARE (3273). ###
"Damn," Foggy swore. "I thought we'd have more time before people noticed."
"Me, too," Karen agreed. "But I've been thinking – "
"Always a dangerous thing," Foggy quipped.
She gave him an exasperated look and continued, "We need a cover story."
"Let me guess: you have an idea."
"I do."
Foggy pulled up a chair and took a seat. "Tell me."
"We tell people Matt's getting a guide dog and is at guide dog boot camp," Karen said, looking pleased with herself.
"'Guide dog boot camp'? Is that a real thing?"
Karen nodded. "It is. It's not called that officially, but there are residential programs where blind people go to learn how to work with a guide dog. They last for several weeks, up to a month."
"And when Matt returns dogless?"
"He just says it didn't work out, he decided not to get a guide dog after all."
Foggy considered this. He didn't see any holes. "It might work. It definitely beats telling people he's been kidnapped by aliens and taken who-knows-where. But there's another problem: when Matt comes back, assuming he comes back, he and Daredevil are gonna reappear at the same time. People are paying attention. This proves it." He gestured toward the article on her laptop. "Someone may make the connection. What's the cover story then?"
"Good question." Karen knitted her brows in thought.
"You know he's gonna want to start going out as Daredevil right away."
"I know. We'll just have to talk him out of it."
"Yeah. Good luck with that."
