So I recently started watching How to Get Away with Murder on Netflix, and it totally assuaged my worries that what Amelia did in the last chapter was unbelievable. Because holy crap, those law students are willing to do WAY more than just climb a tree or break into an empty warehouse to get what they need for a case.

Also, no spoilers. I just started watching and I will be very mean if you decide to spoil it for me.

And by that, I mean I won't update. So don't test me - I can be petty when I want to be *Evil laugh*

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Cui Bono

I got back to Nelson & Murdoch just as Foggy was locking the door behind him.

He, Matt, and Karen were laughing together, making plans for after-work drinks and sharing a few inside jokes - apparently Foggy is a bit of a lightweight. The whole scene made me feel like they were overall more like friends than coworkers, but that hardly registered as I came skidding to a stop in front of them.

"Whoa, there, speedster," Foggy laughed, holding up his hands as I took a second to catch my breath. "What did you do, run here all the way from Wall Street?"

"Kinda," I took a deep breath before handing him his camera. "Got the photos you wanted. Jenson's definitely up to fishy stuff, but I don't really know what it all means. It'll probably look better once you print them out."

"How did it go?" Matt asked as Foggy and Karen started looking through the photos on the camera, squinting to see them better. "You sound out of breath. Is it urgent?"

"N-no," I said, standing up straighter. "Well, I mean, maybe, I don't know."

"Hey, wait, stop there. This looks like a warehouse." Karen said, pointing at the screen. She frowned curiously. "That's a high angle. What did you do, climb onto the roof."

"Um. Maybe."

"Amelia," Matt groaned in what I was starting to recognize as his Beleaguered Disapproval tone that one usually reserves for an annoyingly precocious child. The Doc had something similar and it made me wince. "I thought I told you to not get into any trouble."

"I didn't! He didn't even know I was there."

"Wicked chops, man!" Foggy, of course, didn't see the problem at all, instead offering a high five; I took it, which resulted in Matt smacking Foggy with his cane.

"Don't encourage her, Foggy!" he said, making a face. "It's bad enough we had you tailing a potentially dangerous defendant. Did you really have to trespass onto private property?"

"I got something, didn't I?" I shot back, a little offended. "Besides, I've met waitresses scarier than Jenson. He couldn't even get a whole sentence out straight when he was talking to that other guy."

"The one in the mask?" Foggy asked, frowning at the images. "Who is this guy? Did you get a name?"

"No," I lied, which I thought was pretty smooth, but Matt tilted his head at me, focusing a little too hard for a blind guy, in my opinion. I glanced back before adding, "But I did hear most of their conversation. Jenson hired the other guy to steal some cash owed to him. He's pretty desperate - he needs it by tomorrow morning."

"Who's he stealing it from?"

"I don't know, some guy named Barzetti."

"Barzetti?" all three adults said at the same time, making me jump.

"Barzetti?" Karen said again, giving me a wide-eyed look. "As in Barzetti the Butcher?"

"Whoa, what? You know him?"

"Are you kidding?" Foggy snorted, but he looked more nervous than sarcastic. "I wrote my dissertation on that guy. He's a freaking legend in the legal world."

I couldn't imagine what for, but I figured any guy named "the Butcher" wasn't favored for his personality. "Why? What did he do?"

"He was charged with the murders of over a dozen people," Matt replied, grim. "Paid by the White Rose, back in the Eighties. And despite the overwhelming evidence against him, Barzetti was never indicted. He still lives here, in Manhattan."

"You sure as hell don't steal from him," Karen added emphatically, as if the very idea were stupid. "That's just asking to get yourself killed."

"Killed?" I repeated softly, my stomach dropping. Oh, my god. Did Smoke know any of this? Did he have any idea of what he got himself into? Did Jenson?

"I don't think Jenson wants Barzetti's money," Matt said, earning surprised looks from everyone.

"What are you talking about?" Foggy fixed him with a strange look.

"I'm saying," Matt took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. "Why do you send anyone to a person named the Butcher?"

A swollen, frigid silence fell between the group, knowing the answer but unable to say it. Luckily, Matt didn't seem to have that problem. "That thief is like an animal slaughter. Whoever he is, the White Rose wants him dead."

No no no no no.

"We have to help him!" I blurted, suddenly overwhelmed with panic. It was already dark out - if Smoke hadn't already gone to Barzetti, then he would soon. "We have to do something?"

"Like what?" Foggy held out his arms, helpless. "We're just some small-time lawyers. I'm not messing with the Butcher!"

"We could call the cops," Karen suggested, a well-meaning but entirely useless suggestion.

I was already shaking my head. "No way. They won't get there fast enough and, who knows, half of them probably work for the Rose anyways. Where does the Butcher live?"

"He's got an apartment in the Waldorf," Foggy said, nearly automatic. I guess it would be easy to remember if you spent a whole dissertation on him.

"Amelia, no," Matt said at the same time, already figuring out what I was planning to do. It was too late, though, because I had already turned around. "Amelia!"

"Gotta go!" I shouted behind me as I burst out the front door of the offices, while the three adults freaked out behind me. Matt was already demanding Karen call 911, while Foggy suggested funerary design.

I couldn't stop and explain myself - Matt had already made himself clear on the stance of what I was not supposed to do on this job; specifically, don't put myself in danger, don't get personally involved, don't save lives myself. I was going to be in so much trouble when I got back - if I even had a job by then, but right now I didn't care. Being unemployed seemed like a small price to pay so long as Smoke didn't die. I couldn't trust anyone else to get this done.

Because who else knew about Smoke? Who else could convince him not to do this? Who else could reach him in time?

OoOoO

As a New Yorker, the Waldorf-Astoria building was one of those places you always dreamed of living in. Even if you were too proud to admit it (like me), you wanted the prestige, the luxury, the space to live and relax and sleep well in. In the Waldorf, you didn't have to worry about a break-in, false cameras, or lazy security guards. There was a concierge, a restaurant, even private parking.

For some, it was just another five-star hotel. For others, like Barzetti, it was home.

I ran there faster than any taxi could take me, but I didn't realize the problem until I finally got to the Waldorf. I couldn't fly to the right apartment, and I sure as hell wasn't going to walk in through the front doors, and get my face caught on film.

But it barely slowed me down. Apparently sneaking into buildings was starting to become a trend for me, because I was already heading down one dark end of the Waldorf, looking for a side entrance, when I ran into someone.

He had been waiting for me, I knew, because he had been standing directly under the light of the loading dock. I skidded to a stop at the sight of him, my boots slipping on ice I didn't see. "What are you doing here?"

"You know why." said the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. His arms were crossed and he was scowling something fierce. "What do you think you're doing, going after the Butcher?"

"H-how did you...?" I shook my head. I didn't know how he found these things out, but I didn't care. I didn't have any time to waste. "No, never mind. I'm not here for the Butcher!"

"Then who? The thief?"

I hesitated, frowning at him. The Devil seemed to be implying something that I didn't like. But I stopped caring about propriety, too, so I just snapped, "Yeah, sure, he's my friend! He's not the sharpest nail in the box, but he doesn't deserve to die! So you can get out of my way, because I'm going in there and nothing's going to stop me!"

I went straight for the door and, surprisingly, the Devil let me. But when I reached for the handle, he caught my hand, and I was caught off guard by how strong he was. Strong enough that I couldn't easily pull away.

"Wait," he said. "I can't let you go in there by yourself."

"I can take care of myself."

"I'm not going to believe you no matter how many times you say that," he retorted, and before I could claim that they had healed, the Devil added, "I want to help. The Butcher's evaded justice long enough. And I don't want you or your friend to get hurt. Let me go first."

I closed my mouth, eyeing the Devil as I considered the request. After a moment, I nodded, pulling my hand away from the door. Mollified, the Devil grabbed the handle instead, yanking the door open and darting inside. He was incredibly light on his feet and I stumbled in my attempt to follow him.

We entered a back hallway, which felt oddly normal and quiet for a part of the uber-fancy Waldorf. The floors were cement and the lights were fluorescent, casting a soft yellow tinge on the cold, narrow hallway.

I had only been wearing a rather thin military jacket (actually, it was the same one I bought out of necessity back in December) and hoodie underneath, so I wasn't exactly dressed for the weather. It allowed me to be fast without overheating when running for my life, but now, creeping along a empty hallway like I was in a James Bond movie, had me shivering to the bone.

We made our way to a metal stairwell (an unused fire exit, if I had to guess), when I finally asked, "Wait, do you know what apartment Barzetti's in?"

"It's on the fifteenth floor."

I had to keep myself from sighing out loud. The Devil still managed to catch it, though, and cast me a shallow smile. "You'd rather take the elevator?"

I cast him an annoyed look. "I like my dignity, thanks."

"Of course."

And thus began the fast climb up the stairs. I took them two at a time, while the Devil took a page out of Spider-Man's book - he hopped from banister to banister, scaling multiple floors in a manner of seconds. I just scowled in resentment - I would've done that, too, you know, if I could.

It was then I realized what my role was in all of this. Next to the Devil, I was the tagalong kid who always dragged the story down with their wild, immature antics. It was less Batman & Robin and more like Superman's Jimmy Olsen.

Good lord, I was the annoying kid sidekick in all of this. How humiliating.

I didn't have long to dwell on it, though, because at that point we had already reached the fifteenth landing, with the Devil already on the other side of the door, checking both ways for any witnesses. When he deemed it safe, he allowed me through.

"Whatever happens next," he said to me as I leaned against the wall to catch my breath. This was a lot of exercise for one day - I almost started to wonder if I was pushing myself. "I want you to say behind me -"

Bang!

The sound echoed down the hall, making the both of us jump.

"Smoke!" I cried, knowing what it meant. The Devil was already taking off down the hall. He stopped in front of a door on the left, and before I could catch up, he slammed his shoulder into it; the door gave way like it was made of toothpicks and he fell through.

More gunshots, shouting, and the sound of glass breaking. By the time I had reached the door and pulled myself inside, the apartment was a mess.

The Devil was nowhere to be seen - a cold breeze chilled my skin, and I spotted the broken window at the far end of the room, long gauzy curtains twisting in the wind. The room was dark, but I didn't need to light to see how absolutely luxurious this apartment was. The carpet beneath my feet was plush, marred by glass and mud; the chairs filling the living room were covered in a silvery brocade upholstery, and the furniture had a distinct Rococo style that made me immediately dislike everything there was to living in the Waldorf.

Yeah, it was petty. But who the hell needed gilded tea-trays? Since this was Barzetti's place, I didn't feel too bad about ruining anything.

Speaking of which, I had no idea where the Butcher was, either. I could hear him, though, somewhere outside, fighting with the Devil. I had no idea how they could've survived a fall like that, before I remembered that the building was tiered, and they would've landed somewhere down on the roof below.

I wandered over to the broken window, sticking my head out to look down. There was even less light out there, but I could see two forms fighting several floors down, the Devil with his batons and the Butcher with, well, his knives. The Butcher himself was huge, bigger than the Devil by at least a hundred pounds, more meat than muscle but just as scary. He was slower than the Devil, but his punches made me wince. Each time the Butcher landed a hit on the Devil, he went down.

I considered helping somehow, until I heard a groan behind me. Startled, I glanced over my shoulder, then back down at the fight. The Devil was getting back up, relentless, and I decided that maybe I was better off not getting involved.

Turning around, I scanned the room, trying to find the source of the sound. My heart pounded in my throat, the sound of the gunshot still echoing in my ears.

Barzetti would only attack if Smoke was already here. But was Smoke hurt? I knew bullets couldn't hurt him, if he managed to phase at the right time...

But Smoke had no idea this was a trap. He probably thought Barzetti wasn't even here. Why would he stay phased if he thought he was safe?

"Smoke?" I called out, hoping there wasn't any other Rose thugs lying in wait.

Something shifted in the dark to my right and I edged around a couch, keeping my distance in case it was bad. But I heard another sound, like a whisper, and spotted something on the floor against the far wall, by a doorway that led to the kitchen.

"Smoke!" I gasped, recognizing him instantly. I nearly tripped over myself in my rush to reach his side, sliding to my knees. I could barely see him in the darkness, but I could tell something was definitely wrong. I could hear him breathing and it was ragged, and my knees fell into something warm and wet. "Oh, my god! You're bleeding everywhere!"

"Hey, dove," Smoke rasped, managing a pain smile as he clutched his side. "It's...just a flesh wound. I'll be - I'll be fine."

"Are you kidding me?" I snapped, furious and terrified at the same time. I shrugged off my coat and pulled my sweater over my head, bunching it up and pressing it against his side, making Smoke wince and complain. The wound seemed to be just above his hip. "Jesus, you're lucky he didn't get your head! Did you know?"

"Did I know what?" Smoke grimaced, trying to prop himself up, his hands slipping in his own blood. Even in the dim light, I could see his face was pale, his skin covered in a thin layer of sweat. He looked strange, besides all that, and it took me a minute to realize he wasn't wearing his mask.

I couldn't even fathom where it had gone. Maybe Barzetti had something to do with it. The only thing I could think of at the moment was that his eyes looked a lot bigger without the mask on, and that just made me feel worse.

"That is was a trap, you idiot! The Rose set you up!"

"Well, I do now," Smoke muttered. He tried pushing my hands away, but he was so weak he might as well not done anything at all. "Take it easy, dove. I've had worse."

"You're even dumber than I thought." My words were mean, but they were coming from a place of panic, and I didn't know what else to say. I looked up and around, trying to find a phone. "I need to call an ambulance!"

"No!" He grabbed my hand, suddenly envigored, and when I looked back at him, Smoke's gaze was intense. "Y-you can't. They'll find me there. It'll be that much easier to kill me."

"You're already dying -"

"I'm not dead yet," he scowled, before closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall. Smoke took deep breaths, and each one seemed harder than the last. Then, after a moment of either exhaustion or contemplation, Smoke opened his eyes and said, "Jersey City."

"What?" my voice trembled. I couldn't help it, and I felt so stupid and weak and helpless.

"I have friends..." Smoke said. "In Jersey City. C-call them. The number - the number is..."

His eyes closed and I realized he had gone unconscious. Panicked that I was losing him and scrambled to my feet, deciding to get that phone after all. "Smoke, hold on!"

It took a horribly long time to find a phone, but eventually I did, after upending several tables, knocking over a lamp, and banging my knee - but none of it registered when I got back to Smoke and shook him awake. "Smoke, stay with me! Stay with me! Wake up, damn it!"

I slapped him across the face, hard. Smoke jolted, yelping before fixing me with an annoyed look. "Was that really...necessary?"

"Just tell me the number to your friends! Can they pick you up?"

"Y-yes, it's..." Smoke pressed a hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration. When he pulled away, traces of blood were left on his face. He pressed the hand back on my ruined sweater, and I added my own to it. His skin was already getting cold. "201-555-2370...when it picks up, just say 'Son, can you play me a memory?'"

"Piano Man?" I demanded, catching on fast. "Seriously? My god, I never knew you were such a hack."

"Hey, come on," Smoke shifted in discomfort. "It's a classic."

"It's overdone."

"What are you, a critic? Just call them already."

"Already am," I said, bringing the phone to my face as the call started going through. Even though I was scowling so hard it hurt, I didn't take my hand off of Smoke's face, and I kept my hand over his. There was a click as someone picked up, but no voice. I waited a long, silent second before realizing it was my cue. "Son, can you play me a memory?"

I almost said it sing-song, but didn't, so the words sounded ultra weird. Luckily, though, it was the right thing to say, because a female voice on the other end replied, "I'm not really sure how it goes."

I paused, not knowing what to do next. Smoke whispered, "Location. Give them our location."

I blinked and, with less composure than I liked, I said, "Waldorf-Astoria, Manhattan. Fifteenth floor. Broken window."

I added that last part in case it wasn't already obvious how to find him. The woman on the other end said, "Five minutes," before hanging up and I dropped the phone, no longer needing it. Already I could hear sirens in the distance, overpowering the sounds of the fight between the Devil and Barzetti. I had no idea who was winning, but I decided I wouldn't mind it so much if Barzetti "accidentally" fell off the side of the building.

"They'll be here soon," I told Smoke, pressing a hand to his face so he'd focus on me and stay alert. His eyes fluttered and his hands lost all tension. I didn't know how long he had left. My voice trembled again and I couldn't stop the burning behind my eyes. "It's-it's going to be alright, okay? I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

"Why do you always make promises you can't keep?" Smoke laughed, but it sounded more like a cough. "I guess we can call it even now."

I almost forgot what he was talking about, before I remembered his request earlier today. A part of me was annoyed that he could even be thinking about that at a time like this, but the other part of me wanted to play along, like nothing was wrong. "I should at least get flowers." I sniffed.

"Really? I didn't think...I didn't think you liked flowers."

"Yeah. Well, not roses."

Smoke snorted. "God, no. No roses, I promise."

"I like - I like sweet pea. They're my favorite."

"Sweet pea," Smoke closed his eyes, his voice starting to fade. "Got it."

In the distance, I could hear the distance whirr of a chopper's engines. I looked out the windows, saw a light in the sky getting nearer and nearer. A part of me thought it was police, but I knew it wasn't. Whoever Smoke's friends were, they didn't have long before the actual police freaked out about unauthorized aircraft in the area.

As it approached, I realized that this might be the last time I ever saw Smoke alive. The thought sent a jolt of desperation through me and I turned back to him, the words already on my tongue. "Smoke, I -"

"Amelia," he cut me off, although I wasn't sure he even heard me in the first place. His gaze was unfocused, but he was looking at me, his breathing short and uneven. "B-before I go, you need to know something."

"W-what?" I clutched his hands tighter, leaning in. I was a little frustrated I didn't get to say what I wanted to say, but it could wait for this.

"I know," he said. "I know who leads the White Rose. His name..."

Smoke seemed to stop breathing for three long seconds, and in a long moment I wondered if it was too late. At first, I didn't know what to do, but it turned out I didn't have to do anything - Smoke took another, shuddering breath before he could finally finish his sentence.

"His name is Wilson Fisk."