Laurel Canyon, Los Angeles, California, August, 1947
Peggy had slipped out of Stark's estate before sunrise. She wants to follow Manfredi to whatever meeting he had with Cassandra Romulus and finally figure out what they're up to.
Hopefully his Nonna won't be up.
In any case, the privacy of the neighborhood provides ample cover to sneak around, snoop, and…
"Hell are you doing here, lady!?"
Peggy looks over to see one of Manfredi's goons pointing a pistol at her.
Peggy smiles, "Oh, bother, I seem to have taken a wrong turn! Silly me." And with a few quick movements, has the young man disarmed and frog-marches him to the house.
"Go on, open it. No need to make a fuss," she orders as the young man hesitates at the back door.
She shoves him in and is met with the inside of the kitchen and drawn pistols.
"Well I'm rather disappointed, gentlemen. Your boss' standards have clearly slackened."
"How about you shut your mouth, you English…"
"Stai zitto! Tutti voi!"
Everyone turns to the kitchen entrance, finding Nonna Manfredi standing there. She's dressed in customary black, arms folded, and an expression that was more tired than angered.
"Cosa vuoi?" she asks, completely nonplussed by all the weapons being pointed about.
"She's asking what you want, Lady," a man says after a beat. He seems to have taken something of a lead.
"I'm looking for Manfredi. He's got business with Cassandra Romulus that I'm interested in."
"Like we're telling a Fed," the lead goon says.
"Not a 'Fed' anymore. Private sector now. And this is private business," Peggy retorts. "Now where's Manfredi?"
"Provalo," Nonna says.
She looks between Nonna and the lead goon. He shrugs, "You heard the Dona, prove it."
Sighing, Peggy puts her pistol on the floor, pushing it to the lead goon. Someone grabs a wrist and another pats her down. He's rather well behaved, but that may have to do with Nonna Manfredi's presence. No licentiousness in front of her.
Satisfied, chairs are offered for both Nonna Manfredi and Peggy. Nonna's gaze is steely, gathering all her strength.
"Cosa vuoi da Giuseppe?"
Lead goon says, "She's saying…"
"Thank you, but I can understand her fine," Peggy cuts him off.
She's exaggerating. But French is related to Italian and cosa vuoi sounds close to qu'est-ce que vous. She is met with Nonna's skeptical stare, to which Peggy responds, "In any case you understand English perfectly well. And if I need clarification, I'll ask."
Nonna nods and she starts explaining what happened the previous evening. "Giuseppe went to visit Signora Frost. He was only supposed to be gone a few hours. When he never returned, I sent our men to check in. What they found was…" She shoots Peggy a withering look. "Chaos."
"There was bodies everywhere," Tony, one of Manfredi's bodyguards who went to the hospital, says. "Not like some guys coming up to do a hit. There were… parts. Parts lying around. Could barely piece things together if I wanted. Like shi- like stuff I saw in the Philippines."
Peggy almost feels nauseous at the thought. It didn't even sound like something the worst of HYDRA. It couldn't be more Midnight Oil, she was certain that Howard had destroyed the last of his stores. But from the little she'd seen, a blood scene was anathema to how Zero Matter acted.
"And you couldn't find him? Or Whitney?"
"Nothin', ma'am."
"Have you sent anyone to check the Chadwick properties?"
"Cassandra Romulus took over both of the main properties and the Isodyne facilities. They seem fine, at least, that's what her Krauts told us," the lead goon says.
"La signora serpente," Nonna spits with equal venom.
"Germans?"
"Yeah. Tall, blond, accents. Practically goose stepping. The whole thing."
Cut off one head, indeed.
"C'è l'altro luogo," Nonna says.
"'L'altro luogo'? Other location? Do you mean Whitney Frost's laboratory?" Peggy asks.
She nods and continues in rapid Italian, and this time, Peggy needs the clarification.
The lead goon answers, "She says that Joe bought that lab for Whitney. I can get the books, but I think it was through a holding company he runs with the Las Vegas outfit. And as far as I know, Romulus is only getting Chadwick's property, nothin' that belongs to Whitney. She even changed her will."
"She did? When?"
"Just before things went real bad. The Dona and I were witnesses. Basically put Joe in charge of her stuff if anything happened to her."
"And that includes the laboratory? Why haven't you gone out there yet?"
"Lady, it's way up in Santa Clarita."
"Well you have all day to do that, don't you?" Peggy retorts. Addressing Nonna Manfredi, she says. "In any case, Cassandra Romulus wanted to speak with your grandson about whatever she has planned for Isodyne and Whitney Frost. And I don't think it's anything good. At best, she's trying to draw Joseph into whatever cabal she's creating. At worst, Romulus sees him as an obstacle."
A weight descends upon everyone in the kitchen with the realization of the sort of trouble they were in. But they were not rudderless.
"Signora Manfredi," Peggy says, leaning across the table to the older woman. "We might have gotten off on the wrong foot, and I can't exactly condone your grandson's business practices, but he's gotten himself caught up in something beyond his ken. Something that's going to get him killed."
Nonna Manfredi stares at Peggy with the solemn, grim look only a person who's lost a child could give. "Trova mio nipote. Anche se è morto."
"We'll find him, Dona Clotilde," the lead goon says. He looks over at Peggy, asking, "And what about you?"
"I have to find out what Cassandra Romulus is doing. She seems to be the centre of all this."
It's a way to banish Michael from her mind, at least.
Baldwin Hills
Jason.
He's running blind through a swirling, dark starscape.
Jason!
It wants him. It's calling him. It's going to swallow him.
"Jason, wake up!"
Jason's eyes snap open to his sister, Harriet, standing over him. He tries to say something, but all that comes out is pants.
"You were shouting," she says.
"I was?" he asks when he finally catches his breath. He's sweaty and clammy and feels as ragged as if he'd run a marathon.
"Yeah. Damn near woke up the street." She folds her arms, though her look is rather concerned. "Definitely woke Felecia."
"Sorry about that," Jason could sometimes be a disappointing uncle.
Harriet lowers her voice to a whisper, "You sure you don't want to see someone about what happened?"
"I'm fine Harriet."
He wasn't and he knows it.
"Jason, you went missing for two weeks! Whatever's happening isn't good."
He sits up in the bed, "Look, what happened was so bizarre, no one's going to believe me. And I don't think that there's anyone on the planet who'd understand what happened at Isodyne." Harriet isn't buying his excuses, so concedes, "Stark and Peggy Carter were there for all this bullshit, so I'll let them know when I get to work, okay?"
"I'll hold you to it."
Crenshaw
It's the crack of dawn as Johnny Storm creeps down the stairs to the kitchen, lest he wakes Sue. She'd worked a long shift at the hotel, then went to her secretarial class at night school right after. She's grumpy the mornings after. There were also the boarders he had to think about. Most of them worked in factories or some sort of overnight work.
His auntie's making breakfast when he enters the kitchen.
"Baby, go set the table," Auntie Mary orders, not looking up from the stovetop.
Johnny would roll his eyes, but that was asking for at least a stern word. Taking the plates and cutlery, he walks to the dining room. The window looks out onto the street, with a view of bungalows and oak trees, sycamores, and palms.
Normally Johnny wouldn't pay any attention to what went on outside. But there was something off this morning. Sitting across from the house is a black car. Not a fancy car, but well kept. Stepping close to the window, he sees that there are two people in the car.
Two white men. And they were both keeping an eye on the house.
"Auntie?" he calls into the kitchen.
"Yeah, baby."
"There's two men sitting in a car out front." Auntie Mary doesn't answer immediately, so he adds, "They're white, Auntie."
She walks out of the kitchen, setting a plate of toast on the table before coming to stand next to Johnny at the window. She's quiet for a long moment. Just staring out at the men across the street.
"Johnny," she finally says. The morning reflecting off her glasses and her voice low and serious - the voice that was serious and would not tolerate backtalk. "I want you to stay inside today. Don't give 'em any trouble, you hear?"
"Yes 'am."
Venice Beach
Once in a while, Emily can feel the shadows creep into her periphery. The feel of cold claws twisting around her. The memory of winter, and smoke, and blood. So much blood. Sometimes she wishes she took up that offer. To not feel. To not hurt. Just oblivion. So she didn't have that hollow, gnawing ache in her chest.
There lies temptation.
And in these moments, a good hard run helps. Emily runs a lap at top speed down to the very edge of Marina del Rey then up to Temescal Canyon and back down, harder and faster than last time. Always pushing herself until her lungs burn and her legs are sore. It takes about an hour, but her troubles fade and she can feel the growing heat of the rising sun and the cold water of the Pacific Ocean that soothes aching muscles.
What she wasn't expecting was Dottie.
"Well there you are, silly goose!" she cried. "I was wondering what that dust cloud was all about."
"Yeah, wind and speed. It'll do that."
The smile is big and wide, but the sugary sweet performance is rather false. A mask. They all hide behind one. Dottie's just doesn't fit right. It'd be nice to get to know what lies beneath.
"You out for a walk?" Emily asks.
"Not really. Mister Carter wanted to know where you were. Apparently, we might have some work to do today."
"One step closer to the crown, then."
Dottie cocks her head, "You know, I still don't quite understand what this alleged crown is."
"Ah, Roger likes using big words. It's quite simple. They're three crowns - serpent, wolf, and thorn. They're ancient, powerful artifacts that can bring powers from beyond the stars here when combined. Friends of ours went to hide the serpent crown and HYDRA might have the thorned crown." Emily explains as they head back to the beach house.
"That would leave the wolf crown," Dottie says.
"Yeah. We found out about that one back in January '46. Raided a compound of theirs near Puerto Natales in southern Chile. It was a tough fight. Nearly lost Robby Frank." It cost him a leg, and it's one of too many close calls. But he's alive, that's all that matters. "At least we stopped them from summoning the Void Made Flesh."
"You use such strange terms. 'The void made flesh'."
Emily looks up at Dottie. She's tall, striking, and bloody mad. But there's something there that isn't quite right. A certain immaturity, teasing and quick tempered. So for a moment her tone comes close to that of a parent gently correcting a child. "Some things can have their power taken if you speak their name. Prejudice suffers in the light, once everyone knows what it looks like. But there are other things, old things, best left alone. They listen and pull you in. They're prideful, too. Mercurial and wrathful. Their traps are subtle, and once you're in one, it's hard to get out."
Emily expects a dismissive retort. But Dottie says nothing. Just puts her hands into her trouser pockets and continues walking to the beach house.
She catches sight of the scar around Dottie's wrist, partially covered by her watch. It's a thin line of pink, puckered skin, like an unhealed rope burn. Emily says, "You know, if you ever need hand lotion, don't be afraid to ask." Dottie looks down with an arched brow, looking like she's about to say something smart.
"Thank you," she chooses instead.
They greet Michael and Roger inside the fence, finishing up their breakfast.
"Out for a run?" Michael asks her, not even looking up from the newspaper.
"Of course." Now she feels the child.
"Good. Have your breakfast and get ready. We're going to Malibu. We've been invited to lunch with Hugh Jones of Roxxon."
"Right," she says. "Still playing Joseph Chapman?"
"Yes," then looking over at Dottie. "Roger will be playing Evan Braddock, Emily's Grace Crewe. And you…"
Roger drawls, "She looks like someone with an 'Alex' type of name. Alexandra. Alexandrina. Alexia."
If Dottie's upset, she doesn't show it. But Roger's wandering too close to the truth.
"How about Claire?" Emily suggests.
"That would stand out," Dottie says.
"Not exactly. Lot more common among a certain set. The sort of set Hugh Jones likes to surround himself with."
"And in that, I suggest you two find something nice to wear. Jones likes to have young women swanning around him." Michael says, putting his final word on the matter.
Los Feliz
"She's where?" Daniel says over the phone.
"The note says she's 'Gone to see Manfredi'." Ana Jarvis answers. "Mr. Jarvis has taken the car to find her, of course."
"Does he have any idea where he's going?"
"Of course, he is in Mr. Stark's social diary. For a gangster, Mr. Manfredi does not keep a quiet profile. Despite what might be best for his health."
"That's fantastic, Ana," Daniel replies, trying to not sound sarcastic. "I can probably sniff around a few places he'd be. And I think he had some meeting with that Cassandra Romulus woman."
"So I've heard."
He'd been keeping his own eye on Manfredi since he got to Los Angeles. The guy was a deadly combination of ambitious, ill tempered, and unable to keep a low profile.
"Anyway, Mr. Sousa, Miss Carter will be alright. You have every right to worry, but she is strong and clever."
"Yeah." Why was he doubting Peggy now? She'd tell him off if she knew. Maybe it's the whole brother situation. He's worried that it'll become something unpleasant. That she'll find answers she won't like. Or it'll become her white whale. "You're right, Ana."
"I am always right. And if you see Mr. Jarvis, please remind him to clean the pool. Bernard has been in it."
"Who's Bernard?" he asks, perplexed by Ana's casual tone.
"Mr. Stark's flamingo."
Daniel's a little bewildered, but replies, "Yeah, I'll let him know if I see him. Thank you, Ana. I'll talk to you later."
"Ciao!"
He hangs up and starts making his way out when the phone rings again. "15 Hoover 22, Daniel Sousa speaking."
"Chief Sousa! It's Doctor Blake."
It took Daniel a moment to remember who Doctor Blake was. "Chief Thompson's surgeon."
"Yes. I've been trying to ring you this morning, but you weren't at the office, said you didn't work there anymore. Hope you don't mind me looking you up in the registry."
"Not at all, Doctor," he replies despite his growing impatience and anxiety. He really needs to find Peggy.
"Well, I'm not making a social call. Going to be in surgery all afternoon. I was just wondering if you or one of your associates could swing by the hospital. The preliminary autopsy's done, and thankfully the examiner's a good mate of mine. Neither of us like Feds hanging around longer than wanted, and he says he's found something interesting."
Daniel ignores the comment about Feds - he's more interested in what the medical examiner found. "What exactly?"
"Well, between him and the janitor who found the cartridge, we're pretty sure whoever killed Chief Thompson didn't use a police service pistol."
"When's a good time to swing over?"
"I'm scrubbing up at half past one, so before then. Corner of North State and Marengo."
"I'll be there, thanks."
Daniel puts the phone back in its cradle and just as he's walking away, the phone rings again. This time he dispenses with the pleasantries, "What is it?"
"Is that you, Daniel?" Peggy says voice crackling over the wires.
"Where have you been?"
"Talking to Manfredi?" She replied indignantly.
"And you didn't think to bring me or Jarvis along?"
"Daniel, I'm fine. I can handle these things alright," she snaps back. "Besides, Manfredi wasn't home!"
"Did you miss him or something?"
Peggy takes a breath, calming herself. "No. It seems like he went to visit Whitney last evening and never came home. Apparently, it looked like there was a massacre there. Rather nasty stuff, the goons said."
"And that was after meeting up with that Cassandra Romulus woman." His mind races, trying to fit this news into the web forming in his imagination. "What's happened to Whitney?"
"Don't know. That's why I want to go the asylum. Find out what happened."
"Of course. She was at Trinity Heights in the Palisades. I'll try to meet you there, Peg. I got a possible update on Thompson, so I gotta get to County General."
It's Peggy's turn to be worried, "Be careful. Flynn could still be lurking around there."
"I know," he replies. "And Peggy?"
"Yes?"
"Call Jarvis. He's looking for you."
Isodyne Headquarters, Pasadena
"They've arrived, Madam."
"Thank you, Matthews. Bring them in."
Cassandra Romulus puts the phone back in its cradle. Her hand lingers on it as she debates the merits of standing for her guests, but honestly, they don't deserve the courtesy and decides against it.
The door opens, and the ancient régime walks in, all Ivy League and thoughts of superiority. All while being asleep at the wheel. Well, certainly Hayes and Buckman.
"Gentlemen," she greets them with a bright voice. "So good of you to come. Have a seat."
There's the chorus of replies as the remnants of the Council of Nine, sans Hugh Jones, file into the boardroom. She'll be meeting with him later to hammer out a deal about Isodyne oil fields. Manfredi hasn't shown up, either. She'll need to follow up on that.
Melvin takes his seat next to Cassandra as pre-arranged and not too far from the north doors. When everyone's settled, she starts her proposal.
"Now, I do not want to be too blunt, but I feel like I must be as honest as possible. You know, ripping off the bandage and all that."
"About what?" Hayes asks.
"The future. And how the Council seems to have run into a dead end."
Hayes looks to argue, but Cassandra presses on. "So far, the Council has done nothing but flounder. It's stagnant. There are only a few things you can do with a few hand-picked congressmen and senators. I mean, for the boys who took out McKinley and crashed the market in 29, we'd have never pegged you for being lazy. But success breeds lethargy."
"And what would you know, Cassandra? Aren't you just Baron Strucker's kept woman?" Buckman asks.
"Did you mean 'whore', Ned?" Cassandra scoffs. "Then again, you went to that Quaker school. But if being my baron's mistress means being trusted with running his businesses and overseeing his interests, then I'll take it."
"Melvin, say something," Hayes demands. Melvin just smiles.
"Still smarting from what my aunt did. Not even touching on the problems Peggy Carter and that Soviet assassin did. Complacency, I tell you, Melvin."
"Indeed, Miss Romulus."
"HYDRA still lost, Miss Romulus!" Hayes says. "So, who are you calling complacent?"
Cassandra lets out a laugh, "Do you really think we've lost? Schmitt may be gone, but we've lost a lot of dead weight. We have a cleaner, more efficient organization. One that can move into the future. We've adapted. Politicians come and go, gentlemen, you can't quite rely on them for too long. The public's fickle, after all."
"We can control public opinion," Hayes argues.
"How many adolescents read your papers, Mortimer? Not many, I suspect."
"Does that really matter?"
"They'll be entering the workforce sooner than you think. Some may end up working for us directly. Impressionable minds for us to shape to our liking. As they say, get them while they're young."
"And you can't just broadcast to the world that HYDRA is back," Buckman says.
"It is a long-term plan. And ambitious, too," Cassandra concedes, "It may not come to fruition in our lifetimes. But in the meantime, there's this new little National Security Act that we need to take full advantage of. Though we've got a leg up on that."
"How?" Hayes asks accusingly.
"That warrior for Christ John Foster Dulles, of course. He's eating out of our hand. Has been since long before the war. And his brother, too. Quite ambitious, that one. And there are others, of course. Younger men, so they'll be around for a while." Hayes and Buckman's expressions remain blank, and Cassandra's not entirely sure they understand what she's saying. "We've been sloppy. We've had too many scandals. This arrangement was meant to facilitate the movement of goods and personnel. It was mutually beneficial. We're on the ground to ensure your investments, and you help us move our assets." Her lips crease into a smile as she sees reality finally dawn on them. "We've kept up our side of the bargain. But we've been constantly let down by you. And I believe it is time we part ways."
"What are you talking about, Cassandra?" Hayes asks, his face growing red with rage.
Cassandra presses a button under the table. It had been a silent buzzer to let secretaries and security know when to let in guests or when a meeting was over. She'd had her people rewire the button to several canisters of sarin gas, and place gas masks under hers and Melvin's seats.
"I am being perfectly clear, Mortimer. Our arrangement is over, I'm just tying up loose ends."
As the gas seeps into the room with a hiss, Cassandra and Melvin put on their masks. Hayes and Buckman panic, trying to scramble after them. Hayes is the first to hit the floor. Outside the boardroom, Cassandra's men bar the door.
Buckman's screams go silent.
Trinity Heights Mental Hospital, Pacific Palisades
"I count seven officers," Jarvis says.
"Eight," Peggy corrects.
They had met up at Howard's mansion before motoring over to Trinity Heights.
It was quite a calm scene. Police officers milling about with some staff going in and out. They seem to have missed most of the chaos. But Peggy got an idea. She still had the pen with the subminiature camera.
"Jarvis, do you happen to have a camera on you?"
"Yes, it's…"
"Mind playing a photographer?"
She didn't give him much time to answer as Peggy climbed out of the car.
Approaching one of the police officers, she takes out the pen and notebook. Putting on a more California twang to her voice, Peggy introduces herself, "Officer! Hi there!"
"Who are you?" an older cop asks. He's LAPD. So far, no G-Men.
"I'm Cissy Walker. I'm with the Santa Barbara Gazette. This is my photographer, Stuart," she replies, grasping Jarvis by the arm as he gives an awkward wave. "We heard that something happened here last night."
The officer nods and replies, "Yeah, there was a gas leak. Bunch of people died."
"Really?" Peggy says, feigning breathlessness.
"Yeah."
"Did you see it yourself, Officer…?"
"Daryl Bradshaw."
"Officer Bradshaw. So did you see the aftermath for yourself?"
"No, that's what I was told. I just came on duty."
Already got a cover story. "And who told you that?" Peggy asks.
"The sergeant."
"Is he still here?"
"No, he's back at the precinct."
"Right," she says, more to herself as she scribbles some notes. Officer Bradshaw could be lying, but he could genuinely be in the dark. So she takes her chance.
"Would you mind if Stuart and I took some photos? I don't know if they'll wind up in the paper, but just for our edification, you know?"
Officer Bradshaw looks around. Most of the other officers are clustered elsewhere or wandering around the grounds. "Be quick. Fifteen minutes, perhaps."
"Fantastic!"
Peggy and Jarvis climbed up the front stairs and into the lobby.
They're hit with the pungent scent of bleach and lemon. Jarvis wrinkles his nose, muttering, "Gas leak my big toe."
"Indeed."
Jarvis starts taking pictures. They must have cleaned the place last night and spent the entire night doing so. There were parts of the walls where the green paint was lighter than other parts from hard scrubbing. And the halls echoed with silence. There's something about empty hospitals that makes an already unsettling place truly disturbing.
There was little evidence of violence. A few cracked windows and doors with scrape marks around the jams.
It's not a big place, and it doesn't take long for Peggy and Jarvis to find Whitney's room. It had been stripped bare. Only the bed frame was left, the mattress and bed clothes nowhere to be seen.
"So what are we looking for?" Jarvis asks.
"I don't…"
Peggy steps into something wet and icy cold. A shiver runs up her body, as sudden and shocking as a spider climbing up her leg.
Lifting her foot, she finds an inky black liquid among the grouting.
"Looks like they missed a spot," Jarvis observes
"A spot of what, though?"
"It looks like dirty water."
"I'm certain it's not," Peggy says, crouching down. On closer inspection the liquid looked oilier and opaquer.
Poking it with her pen, she did not expect the liquid to jump.
"Good Lord, what is that?" Jarvis looks in astonishment.
"Oh don't you remember, Jarvis?" Peggy asks as they watch the liquid slither under the bed frame and down the drain. "I think that was Zero Matter."
Stark Laboratory, Malibu
"I know this is going to sound crazy," Jason says. He's sitting in Stark's office at the Malibu laboratory. Stark's behind his desk while Jason sits in a chair with a cup of coffee in his hands. He's pretty sure Stark's added more than a splash of rye to it.
"I mean, we do crazy here, so try me," Stark reassures him.
"Alright." He takes a sip of the coffee. "I don't think we really closed that rift with the Zero Matter."
"How do you know?"
Jason takes another long sip of the coffee. The rye's doing nothing. "Hearing things. Seeing things. It's calling."
"It's 'calling'?"
"Yeah. It wants me for something."
They're silent for a beat. Jason finishes his coffee while Stark leans back in his chair thinking.
"You said it could think, right?" he asks.
"More than that, it's intelligent. Extremely intelligent. Beyond whatever us humans understand."
"Wilkes, don't scare me like that."
"Sorry."
"It's fine," Stark says, rubbing his eyes. "It's just… just when you'd think you've got the universe figured out, it finds a way to remind you that you know nothing."
"Ain't that the truth," Jason mutters, looking down at the empty mug in his hands. The coffee grounds are clustered in an odd way, trails connecting stains. Something clicks in Jason's mind. "I can't be the only one this is happening to."
"Yeah. Cause you got caught in that explosion. Whitney Frost had all that Zero Matter in her. And didn't Underwood get exposed to it, too?"
"I think so. At least that's what Peggy said," Jason answers.
"Well, Frost is locked up, but that Underwood chick…"
They shared a concerned look. Jason knows enough about Dottie Underwood to understand how dangerous she is on her own. But if she's got the same thing happening, then Lord have mercy.
Los Angeles County General Hospital, Boyle Heights
Daniel meets Dr. Blake near the hospital. He's hard to miss, being in his lab coat and scrubs.
"Sorry for keeping you waiting," Daniel says.
"No worry. I only have to sprint back," the doctor snarks. Daniel looks back a little stunned until Blake snorts. "I'm pulling your leg, Chief. It's an Australian tradition. I still have almost two hours before I scrub up."
"Not a 'Chief' anymore."
Blake raises an eyebrow.
"Flynn wasn't impressed with me. And I haven't been impressed with him either. So…" Daniel waves his hand about. "It was a mutual parting. Working for Stark now."
"Stark? As in Howard Stark?"
"Yeah. He's been a partner of the SSR until recently. Carter and I are on pretty good terms with him."
From his pocket, Blake produces a small sample bottle and hands it to Daniel. "Well, I think I trust you more than the coppers here. And from my experience, I'm pretty sure that casing came from a Webley revolver."
Daniel looks down at the bottle with the crushed bullet and spent casing. "That's a British side arm."
Blake shrugs, "It's not that hard for someone to get their hands on Webley, especially in a place like here. Probably quite a few in a prop department's armoury. But it's certainly not what most LAPD officers carry."
Daniel's mind flashes back to the night Thompson was killed. Trying to recreate what he saw. Slow it down, rerun it like a film reel. And everytime the dark-haired man's features become familiar. Dark brown hair, almost black in his case, and brown eyes. The cheekbones and jaw are sharp. The nose is straight.
The man looked a lot like Peggy.
"Yeah, that's odd," Daniel replies. He sticks his hand out for the doctor. "Thanks for the help."
"No problem."
Castle Ridge Estate, Malibu
Hugh Jones' estate sits on a promontory looking over the ocean, highway, and beach. A fortress, glowering down over passing drivers going north to Ventura. A bizarrely unhappy cluster of buildings in a sunny part of the world for a man the public in general, and even quite a few of the upper crust, considers a bon vivant. A little frivolous and resting on his laurels since he created Roxxon from the ashes of his father's failures.
But for Roger, everything about the place is off. The Italian style mansion and matching out buildings huddled on a cliff held together by a few pines and palms. The architecture was clearly rococo in inspiration, but that style is airy and theatrical. Castle Ridge on the outside possessed a reluctant acceptance of ornamentation that gave the recently cleaned walls a certain heaviness.
"What's wrong?" Michael asks as they climb out of the car.
"Could have picked a better architect."
"If you don't like the outside, you'll hate what's inside," Dottie sneers.
"How would you know?" Roger retorts.
"I've done my research. And I've seen his Manhattan home."
Dottie is proven right. Parc-aux-Cerf would be a far more appropriate name for Jones' California retreat. The aesthetic was nymphs. There were statues, paintings, and porcelains all over the place of nude, or nearly nude, young women. Girls really. Roger's never been fond of the academic style. The geniuses of the style did little to progress it, while the lesser artists churned out boring commercial works for the anti-intellectual. The symbolists, realists, and surrealists did far more interesting things with classical forms. The nymphs, goddesses, and odalisques make him feel like a voyeur.
The awkward reproduction of rococo continues inside. The palette's too dark, the ornamentation too heavy, and the art is not helped by the girl who just walked past them. She's small and slender like Emily, dressed in a bathing suit, but she couldn't be older than sixteen.
They come into a large sitting room with breathtaking views of the ocean. The French windows open and gauzy curtains flutter in the breeze. The room is dark, though. The sun hasn't quite gotten over to the west side of the compound. The furniture is a mix from Louis XV to Napoleon, and barely coordinated. The walls have the requisite bathing Dianas, newborn Venuses, and triumphant Auroras. Beyond the windows, around the swimming pool, is a harem of young women and girls.
"Ah, Mr. Chapman, so good to finally meet you!"
Hugh Jones walks in, an old peacock if he's ever seen one. He's tanned and fashionably dressed, if overdone. Roger can't complain about the cut and colour, they're rather complimentary. But the ascot and open collar kills the outfit. It's all too much.
"You, too, Mr. Jones. This is my associate, Evan Braddock," Michael gestures to Roger. "And these ladies are Grace and Claire."
"Such delightful creatures you've brought!"
Jones introduces himself with over-the-top verve; kissing their hands with Old World ceremony. Dottie plays into it with a wide smile and honey sweet voice. Emily's reaction is still polite, yet far more cool. And completely oblivious to the Baretta strapped to her thigh.
"You and I will be chop liver," Roger mutters.
"We'll see." Michael replies, then to Jones, says, "I am told you have one of the best gardens in the area."
"Yes, the Alcázar in Seville was quite the inspiration."
"And I believe that would be more interesting than boring business talk."
"It is such a lovely day," Emily adds with pitch perfect RP. "Are you fine with that, Mr. Jones? Leda and I walking about?"
"Of course, my. Mi casa es su casa!" Jones beams, his teeth too white and eyes flicking to Dottie's cleavage.
Roger wants to vomit.
The girls walk out onto the terrace with the pool. Lost among the sunbathing women, they could snoop around undetected.
Jones turns to Michael and Roger. "Well, gentlemen, I believe we should get down to business."
The women do swan about Jones' property. They're beautiful. Would be actresses, singers, dancers, and models. The snatches of conversation were vapid at best, judging from the snippets Dottie catches. She and Emily stand around a buffet table sipping on glasses of lemonade.
"Let's go through the gardens," Emily says quietly, back in her Welsh lilt.
Dottie nods and they walk down the steps into what she guesses is supposed to be a replica of a Spanish or Arab garden. Her sort of upbringing wasn't conducive to such bourgeois pleasures such as gardening.
Emily seems more knowledgeable, inspecting the plants. "His water bills must be ghastly."
"Why?"
"Lot of grass, has to be mowed, so it's always growing and needs watering. Mulberry's aren't native," she gestures with her chin to some trees. "And they do best in wetter climates. Monsoon rains, preferably. And those rhodos need watering."
"You know so much."
"Mum had me in the garden a lot. Though we weren't growing a lot of ornamental plants," she replies. "We had roses; they keep away scurvy and you can make jam and tea from the hips. Cabbage, carrots, potatoes, et cetera. You can cook with calendula and primrose. And you can use feverfew and yarrow for medicinal reasons."
They get to the lower garden. There's a fountain with a marble statue of some classical goddess. She awkwardly holds a jar with water pouring out, guttered by the wind. There's a girl sitting on the lip. And she's clearly a girl no more than fifteen. Her red hair and makeup done up to make her look more grown, her dress a copy of something she saw in a magazine.
The girl looks up. She's scared, alone, and utterly pathetic. Dottie bristles at the girl, tries to steer Emily towards one of the outbuildings or the lower floor. They've only got so much time.
"Are you lost, dear?" Emily asks the girl, using that posh accent.
The girl looks startled, then shakes her head. "No. I'm supposed to meet someone."
"Did they say what time?"
"Soon."
The girl looks scared and close to tears Dottie wishes she would grow up. The world is hard and the girl needs to fortify.
"You don't look well," Emily says, clearing thinking differently.
The girl scrunches her face in confusion. "I'm feeling okay, lady."
Emily takes off her sunglasses before feeling the girls' forehead with the back of her hand. "You look a little peaked. Let's find a phone, Miss…?'"
"Kathleen." The girl looks a little surprised she gave her name so freely.
"Alright, Kathleen. Let's find a phone and get you a taxi."
Kathleen nods and they soon find their way to the lower level of the mansion, open to the garden through a series of French windows. The half basement is just as shaded as the upper floor, but with less decoration and no paintings. To their left is a hall that leads to a stairwell that goes back upstairs. To their right, it looked like there were a few rooms to explore.
Emily finds the phone on a side table and calls up a taxi company to pick up Kathleen. Dottie tampers down her frustration
They only have so much time.
Emily cradles the phone and says to Kathleen, "There'll be a taxi here in about forty-five minutes. We can wait with you if you'd like."
"Sure. But we should probably go up…"
Emily holds up her hand: thumb touching curled middle and ring finger while index and little finger are pointed upwards. "Take a nap, dear," Emily says and the girl collapses onto a leather couch.
"Half an hour should do," she then says to Dottie.
"How did you do that?"
"It's a trick I picked up. Quite useful, really. But we should find Jones' office."
Dottie has seen many strange things since she's been sent to America, and this is just another. She knows that Emily is not a normal human. It's another thing that reminds Dottie of how small she is.
The first room they check turns out to be a powder room. The next room is a little more fruitful, being a billiards room. It's a strange room; dark, small, and so hidden away. There's just enough space for the pool table, rack of queues, and other accoutrements. There's a small bar in a corner, a leather couch, and a painting of a languid young woman lounging on a tiger skin. An arm reaches up to play with a green bird, maybe a parrot. The pale blue dress is see-through, displaying well formed calves and the outline of breasts.
God this man has a one-track mind.
Emily looks about the room. "There's something queer about this place."
"Quite." It's a strange place to put a billiards room, so tucked away and seemingly forgotten. "Maybe he has a dungeon hidden here?" Dottie teases.
"Well, neither type will be pleasant to find regardless. He could be a Bluebeard for all we know," Emily retorts
They start tapping the walls, listening for any signs of a hollow space behind the wood paneling. Dottie feels along the molding and discovers a slight gap with the wall.
"Might be something here."
Coming to her side, Emily also feels down the side of the panel. "It might open up. Push a little on your end, Dottie."
Dottie does so while Emily can get her fingers under the panel. She hears a soft click as the panel settles onto a track of some type, allowing it to slide behind the rest of the wall. Beyond the panel was more of an alcove with a safe and a few banker's boxes of documents.
"How about you take some pictures? I'll try the safe," Emily says, passing Dottie a subminiature camera.
"So you're a safecracker, too?"
Emily crouches down, studying the safe. "Normally I just smash these things. Or use some plastiques. But we don't want to show our hand so quickly, would we? So let's hope that Mr. van Lundt was telling the truth when he said he and Jones had identical safes."
The documents were not quite what Dottie had been expecting. She was surprised anyone among the Council of Nine would trust Hugh Jones with such sensitive documents, but here they were. There's money transfers, shipping manifests, and more than a few letters to congressmen and senators asking for them to "put pressure on the right places" to get some passports and visas, several to the Canal Zone in Panama. The people Jones had made such requests for were all German scientists.
Dottie looks up occasionally at Emily. Her fingers move lightning fast, turning the dial this way and that. She lets out a frustrated sigh every time a combination fails. After several attempts, Emily lets out a relieved breath, saying "There we go," as she opens the door.
"So what was the combination?"
"It's still the former wife's birthday. Either out of laziness or sentimentality. Just wished the Yanks did day-month like the rest of us. Would have saved me the headache."
Emily takes out the files hidden in the safe. Putting them on top of the boxes, she starts flipping through them and Dottie takes pictures. The documents list weapons and chemicals sold from a German company and correspondence with Brand. There's charters for ships and manifests, many heading for ports in Panama, the Pacific coast of Colombia, and Peru.
"Well this is interesting," Emily says, opening a new file and revealing a rather large contract with both federal and state governments. It's with Brand, Roxxon, and a few more companies. The whole viper pit is present, purchasing land and starting construction on a massive scale.
"A playground for their Nazi scientists," Dottie quips as she loads a new film reel into the camera.
"Indeed. Strange location, is it? Alamogordo isn't that far from where they tested the atom bomb."
"So sad to hear about Cornelius. But I guess no one ever really sees a stroke coming," Jones says, passing drinks to Michael and Roger. The whiskey's fine, though clearly bought for the label.
"Quite," Michael replies. "Rather debilitating. You can understand the desire for a quiet retirement." Especially after HYDRA sent an assassin with a syringe of strychnine to Cornelius van Lundt's penthouse for that whole debacle with Dottie. John Steele and Gisele Brandt were keeping an eye on him, acting as both bodyguards and nurses.
"How's he finding Miami?" Jones asks, gesturing for them to sit down.
"Comfortable. Much warmer than New York, after all."
"Well, I tend to find the place a little too humid, but to each his own."
Jones sits down in a tapestry upholstered armchair chair and elaborate gilding. Attempting to look like the king of his castle. "So Cornelius wants to sell everything?"
"No heir. No one to pass it on to," Michael shrugs. "Your hands are quite capable. Your ideas align. He knows you fairly well. He trusts you. Why wouldn't he sell it to you, Mr. Jones?"
He smiles and nods blandly, sipping his drink. "Oh you flatter me, Joe. Can I call you 'Joe'?"
"Joe's fine," Michael replies, equally dismissive. Chapman isn't precious about such things, and he'd been called worse by the adjudant-chef in the Legion. So let a rich old man call you 'Joe'. And he doesn't care what his host thinks of the pungent smell of his Gauloises.
His eyes are sharp, Michael will give him that. But he is taking their measure. Or at least Chapman and Braddock's measures.
There's always the danger of Jones not buying them, but they just need enough time. He needs to know where Strucker ran off to. He needs to know what their plans are.
"In any case, I've been eyeing Cornelius' construction business. It would make certain projects easier," Jones says off handed.
"Independent of the Brand Corporation?" Roger asks.
Michael's not surprised at the sentiment, however. The people Jones pals around with have a tendency to stick knives in each other's backs.
"Lateral integration and streamlining, Mr. Braddock. Brand does it as well. And we don't step on each other's toes that often."
"Of course," Roger shrugs.
Michael taps his cigarette into the ash, "Speaking of Brand, wasn't one of their people supposed to be here?"
"Yes, Miss Romulus. She had some business with Isodyne earlier, but she should be here soon. Los Angeles traffic is notoriously awful."
"Very true."
"And I doubt that Miss Romulus would be too put out if I take a look."
From a briefcase Roger takes out a thick file of papers detailing the construction company Jones longs to buy. There is a company in van Lundt's name, but it's a façade. A shell created by Maddie and Robby, the clever devils. They're banking a lot on Jones at least becoming distracted long enough for their purposes.
"So how did you two meet old Cornelius?"
"Belgian Congo, after the war. Just got out of the Legion," Michael answers. "Evan was taking a break from the service. Was interested in a few projects there. Funny who you run into in Léopoldville."
"Indeed. It would be a shame if you two were out of a job so quickly. For a high price at least," Jones says, flipping a page.
"Mr. van Lundt is open to negotiations," Michael answers, sharing a look with Roger. "And Braddock and I will survive."
A butler walks in and whispers in Jones' ear. "Ah, bring her in." To Michael and Roger, he adds, "Miss Romulus is here."
"Shooing us out then?" Roger says with a wry smile.
"No, no! I think Miss Romulus would be thrilled to meet men such as yourselves," Jones replies with a sly smile. "May I keep this, though."
Jones holds up the folder with the contract. "Of course," Michael replies. They have a copy back at the beach house anyway.
"Hugh, how good to see you."
A woman - tall, waspy waist, and pale blonde - dressed in a short sleeved green suite walks in. Jones greets her with grand warmth, exchanging bisou and pleasantries.
"How was your flight, my dear?"
"Well it was fine until we got to Mexico City. Stopped to refuel but got delayed by terrible weather. You know they get monsoon rains there, right?"
"Yes. There's a reason I prefer drier climes. Anyway, where are my manners?" Jones spins Cassandra Romulus around to face Michael and Roger, now standing. Jones makes the introductions, "Cassandra, these are Joseph Chapman and Evan Braddock. They work for Cornelius. Gentlemen, this is Cassandra Romulus."
"How do you do?" Cassandra Romulus says, extending a hand. Her eyes are cold and her hand is firm. There's a silver snake shaped bracelet on her wrist. Her nails and lips are the shade of blood.
So this is von Strucker's mistress.
"Very well Miss Romulus."
She turns to Roger, shaking his hand. Her eyes are green but otherwise she's a picture perfect Aryan.
"Joe and Evan here work for Cornelius van Lundt," Jones says.
"Really?" replies Romulus, turning to look back at Michael. "Well I am very sorry to hear about his stroke. Absolutely awful stuff."
"Thank you, ma'am. He is doing well," Michael says.
"And retiring, too," Jones adds.
"Well I would too after such a crisis!" Romulus looks at him, from shoes to hair. "I guess you're helping old Mr. van Lundt with that." Only one person has ever looked at him the way she just did, like he was a piece of meat. Michael has to suppress the shiver that goes up his spine.
He does not like and is not loyal to Cornelius van Lundt. He finds the man and his politics repulsive. But Michael finds Romulus' performance equally disgusting. Her lover ordered the hit on van Lundt and Cassandra Romulus is no sheltered kept woman. She is deeply involved.
"Yes," Roger answers. "Given that he doesn't have much in the way of family, he wanted to be sure that his businesses will be disposed of properly."
"Of course," she replies. "Though won't you be out of the job?"
She's staring at him again, keen and hungry. "We will survive ma'am. We always do."
"Right that," Roger adds.
Maybe Cassandra Romulus knows who he is. They must be wondering why old Cornelius isn't dead. And suddenly van Lundt has all these new people around him. Of course, she's curious. Michael is certain she's at least suspicious.
"Well, that's good to know. And there's many opportunities out there if you know where to look." Romulus says.
"With Brand and Roxxon?" he asks.
"Of course! But don't limit your horizons to just us, Mr. Chapman."
Over her shoulder, Michael sees Emily, Dottie, and a red haired girl walking past the entrance to the sitting room. Emily gives a hand signal that it will soon be time to go.
"Take this," Emily says, pressing a wad of cash into Kathleen's hand as the taxi rolled up to the gates of Jones' estate.
"It's a lot, miss."
"Should get you home, cover the tip, and whatever else you need."
"Thanks," she says as she climbs into the taxi. Emily and Dottie wave Kathleen off and turn to return to the mansion.
"Why her?" Dottie asks.
"What do you mean?"
"That girl has to grow up. The world's cruel and it will chew her up and spit her out if she doesn't fortify."
"She's only, what, fifteen? Sixteen?" Emily replies, rather astonished at Dottie's callousness. "Let her be a child. I was nineteen when I got involved in all of this and in hindsight, I was much too young. And Lord knows what Kathleen was brought here for."
"I was twelve."
Emily stops and stares at Dottie. There's no sneer on her face. No mocking tone in her voice. Her expression is a dark mixture of rage and sadness.
"Twelve?"
"I started training at six. And they put me in the field at twelve after my first kill."
Emily looks down at the ring of scar tissue around Dottie's wrist. She's experienced her fair share of nightmares. Her childhood was not without its troubles but wasn't unhappy.
"I can only imagine," Emily says. "Doesn't make what happened to you right. Doesn't make what was likely going to happen to Kathleen right, either. This world wrecks lives, even if she would be on the periphery. Let her be a child a little longer."
"Well, the world's not fair to little girls."
Dottie stuffs her hands in her pockets and stalks off to the car.