Cleve Garfield was considered a regular at Pops Bar, but his attendance had become more frequent over the past couple of weeks. Instead of his usual Tuesday and Thursday brew to help unwind, he’d been in almost every day. He was still a fairly light drinker, but he’d picked up smoking and looked like hell. Luke knew that he came for the companionship. It was one of the few places where he was accepted, a place where people actually saw him, a place where he could connect with the living instead of the dead.

He appeared especially ragged this Thursday evening, and was already three drinks over his usual when he told Luke to get him another one

Luke gave the bar a couple of swipes then leaned over on his elbows.

“All right, Cleve. Spill it.”

Cleve looked up, his eyes red and haggard. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a while. Not that Cleve was particularly stylish—on his best day he’d be considered frumpy—the man was even more rumpled than usual, his tweed jacket somewhat wrinkled, his reddish hair a bird’s nest. He wiped his hands across his chin, his head giving the tell-tale wobble of the close-to-being-drunk.

“Can I, uh, have the beer first?”

Luke considered for a moment and decided to pour another draft. He gave Cleve a few sidelong looks as he did. The man was only a couple years younger than Luke himself, but right now he seemed almost as old as Pops.

He set the draft down in front of Cleve, who promptly took a big gulp, choking a bit on the foam. He wiped his hand across his mouth again. Luke waited patiently. The place was quiet enough tonight that he could afford to give one of his regulars his full attention.

“There’s…” Cleve started, then stopped. He looked up at Luke. “You sure you, uh, want to hear this? It’s, it’s kinda…bad. Y’know?” Something in his eyes said that he wanted to tell even more than he didn’t want to.

Luke nodded. “I was a cop, Cleve. If you want to talk about it, I can take it.”

Cleve nodded. The gesture turned into a shake of the head. Again Luke waited.

“There, uh, there have been some…some…” He took a deep breath, let it out in one long rush. “There’ve been some murders.”

Luke nodded. Whatever it was had shaken Cleve up pretty bad, and considering the man had been a coroner in Hudson City for the past half-dozen years, it had to be pretty bad indeed.

“Women,” Cleve continued. “P-prostitutes, one is just…just…” he groped for the word. “Low class, y’know? They’re, uh, they use drugs. And stuff like that.” Again Luke nodded. He knew the type.

“How many?” he asked.

Cleve swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Three,” he whispered. Suddenly he grew animated.

“And no one cares!” He gestured wildly. “No one! Th-the cops don’t care! It’s just a couple of whores, right?”

“Cleve.” Luke spoke quietly but forcefully. Once he had the man’s attention he made a placating gesture. “Keep it down, man. Keep it down.” Cleve jerked his head in assent..

“Sorry. Sorry. It’s just not…it’s, um…wrong, man. It’s just wrong.”

Luke nodded, his blood fired and his curiosity piqued. Cleve had been coming to the bar for a while, maybe a year or two, and never had Luke seen him like this. To say he was agitated was an understatement. Cleve was normally unflappable. A little odd in a Trekkie sort of way, but a nice enough guy. And even tempered. To see him like this…

“Tell me about ‘em,” Luke prompted.

Cleve regarded the bartender through red-rimmed eyes. “They were all pregnant.” He started to continue, then downed his beer. Luke didn’t say anything. After a moment, Cleve spoke again.

“But the babies were missing.”

A narrowing of the eyes was the only hint that Luke was now fully intent on what Cleve was telling him. He waited to see if Cleve would elaborate but the man was once again lost in thought.

“What do you mean the—“

“Missing!” Cleve glanced around, embarrassed by his outburst. He continued again just as intense, but in more subdued tones. “Missing, man! The, the babies were…” he trailed off, making vague gestures towards his midsection with his hands. “They were taken.”

“Taken?”

Cleve nodded, a rapid fire jerk of the head. “Taken. Cut out.”

Luke was trying to understand. “Cut out?’

“Cut out!” Cleve dropped his head in his hands, anguish and frustration making him even more agitated. “They were cut out! With a knife. By someone who didn’t know what they were doing!” Luke grimaced on instinct, but Cleve wasn’t finished.

“And he didn’t do such a good job on the first one.”

Knowing he had to, Luke still didn’t want to ask the question. “What do you mean?”

Cleve drew two deep ragged breaths. “The first one. He, whoever, he cut the baby, too.” Luke gave an involuntary shudder at the mental image. Cleve noticed and nodded, seeing empathy in Luke’s expression, and managed to calm himself a little.

“Three of—three ladies, Luke. Three.” Luke couldn’t move, trying to wrap his head around the psycho who would do such a thing, and how even this had avoided the news thus far.

“They were still alive when it happened.”

Luke was silent for a long time. When he did move again it was to simply refill Cleve’s beer.

“The rest are on me, man.”

*****

Soft trip-hop and ambient lighting were the only patrons at the Palmer-Melville Gallery. It was yet another slow evening. Despite the emptiness the air was thick with psychic tension that had nothing to do, for the first time this month, with the godawful abstract sculpture artfully scattered across the big white room. George Melville was seething nervous energy like he was a whore in church.

With mingled amusement and exasperation, Edison Palmer watched his partner over the top of the most beautiful object in the space - the iMac at the front desk. George was taking another inventory of the "provocative objects" on offer, in between making obsequious calls to former clients to remind them about Saturday's opening.

There were times - about every four to six weeks - when Edison wished he'd gone into the art business on his own. Every opening sent George into a tizzy of self-righteous bustle, as if only he knew the exactly proper way to mail out the postcards. Who knew it took a double degree in Business and Art History to lay out some cheese plates and white wine for an opening reception?

But tomorrow, when they packed up this roomful of dubious treasures and hung the next show, Ed would be glad of George's fastidious attention to detail. In fact, they complemented each other very well. George knew his stuff, and even looked the part with his wire framed glasses and vintage/geek wardrobe. But Ed had the real business savvy, including and especially salesmanship. Saturday night, George would be shyly ensconced in the gallery's far corner while Ed worked the room.

They had big expectations for their next show, featuring the work of two abstract painters who worked on large canvases. George had made a point of calling the work "not serious," whatever that meant, but he was well aware the paintings were comparatively easy sells. That was not a small point considering the sales figures on the last two shows, which were nearly sales figure. Those loans weren't going to repay themselves.

"Hey George," Ed called. "I had an idea for the opening." George looked up from his clipboard suspiciously. He secretly enjoyed it when Edison teased him like the big brother he never had, but tonight he wasn't in the mood.

"Why don't we hang big strips of fabric around the place, all in different colors?" Ed continued. "That way, the customers will know if the art matches their drapes."

"Ed-is-son," sighed George. He clutched the clipboard to his gray sweater vest.

"It'll be practical, too," mused Ed. "We can hide the wine boxes behind them."

"You are so off wine-buying duty," retorted George. The tone of voice and accompanying eyeroll made him look a lot younger than 28.

"Great," Ed smiled. "I'll just pick up some wings on my way in." George refused to return the smile. Time to soothe the savage puppy.

"Hey, did you eat? I bet you didn't, you've been working so hard this afternoon. Let me get you a burrito. Carnitas, guac, extra cheese?"

"Yeah, sure, that'd be great," George murmured distractedly. The conversation had him fretting over the unpredictability of the wine selection at Trader Joe's.

Ed practically dashed out the door. A round trip walk to the local tacqueria would give George twenty minutes for martyr arias, and Ed twenty minutes of calm. As he turned onto the street he automatically patted his jeans to check he had his wallet and keys. Then he smoothed his blazer and verified he had his cell. He clamped down on the urge to also touch the necklace under his shirt. He was getting ridiculously sentimental about the old thing.

As Ed was walking to his car, his cell phone rang, and he could tell by the personalized ring tone that it was Umberto DiSantiago. It was odd for him to call on a Thursday night; he tended to be a spur of the moment kind of guy, and their particular amusements were usually limited to Friday and Saturday nights.

"Edison?" Umberto's tone was unusually urgent.

"Berto," came the warning reply. "Don't even think about blowing off Saturday." And how about you be a pal and bring some of your rich, dumb friends? Is that so much to ask?

"Uh...yeah, sure." Umberto's reply, was distracted at best and Edison could sense that something was wrong. "Listen, I need a favor. You know that thing you do? That para...whatever it is, investigation bit. I kind of have a problem."

Edison rolled his eyes. Umberto was 30 years old, but basically he was a spoiled rich kid who couldn't handle it when the littlest thing didn't go his way. Still, it was good to be in the position to do another favor for the DiSantiagos. Edison switched to a tone of casual concern that he hoped would be soothing.

"What can I do for you?"

"Do you still have that contact in homicide...the one that helped you out with Inez?"

"Yes," Ed replied neutrally, and tried to remember what he'd told Umberto about Detective Cruz. The problem with staying in one place was that your exaggerations and lies could catch up with you. Cruz owed him a favor or two, but she resented him for it. Not to mention she was that Hudson City rarity, an honest cop.

"Listen, I'll meet you at the gallery in ten minutes. I can't talk about this over the phone." That was Umberto, no please, no thank you, just make it happen.

"Hasta," Ed said sourly to the dial tone. He pocketed his phone and reversed direction. George's dinner would have to come from the convenience store on the corner. He pushed open the doors and drifted through the fluorescent-lit aisles, not really noticing what he picked up.

Why was Umberto coming to him? The DiSantiagos had their own police connections. They probably had their own stable of superhumans, too, lorded over by that creepy Raphael. Was Umberto trying to do something behind his family's back? That sounded like a dangerous game. But a game isn't fun if the stakes aren't high.

*****

Pops didn’t say anything when Luke handed him the bar towel almost as soon as the older man walked into the bar for the night shift. The look on Luke’s face and the purposeful way he moved told him enough.

He’s onto somethin’, Pops thought. Go get ‘em, kid.

Luke headed straight to the back and fired up the computer. Cleve had made it through one more beer before Luke had convinced him to take a cab home. Cleve was normally unflappable, but whatever he’d seen in the women’s deaths had shaken him. That was enough for Luke to look into it. At some point, though, he was going to have to see the bodies. He was still wondering how to accomplish that when his cell phone rang. A quick glance at the caller ID told him it was “Phi”—Ophilia DiSantiago.

He couldn’t help but smile a little at that. They’d met several times in the past month. He’d been in costume every time but the last. Eventually, she’d told him, he’d have to reveal himself to her. Otherwise they couldn’t extend the support they’d planned. His identity would provide the guidelines for their interaction, the idea being the more they knew about him the more they could do to avoid any public connection.

The first time she’d seen him without his mask he’d been extremely nervous, like a first date. There was definite chemistry between the two, but thus far they’d managed to keep it to playful flirting. That, unfortunately, was for the best.

The insistent ring broke him out of his reverie and he answered the phone.

“Hello?”

"Hey Ne...Luke." She chuckled a bit at stumbling over his name, but when she continued her voice was serious, more so than usual. "I was wondering if you might be able to help me. There's been a bit of a family situation, and..." She hesitated for a heartbeat, and the pause itself was enough to indicate that she wasn't looking forward to asking him whatever it was, she was about to ask.

"We're going to be sending a paranormal investigator out to look into a rather unusual death. And I was wondering if you could go along with the investigator, we've used him before and it's been suggested to me that he might be a good fit for our team. If you go with him and help out, I'd appreciate it." Luke knew her well enough now, to know that there was more to this story than what she'd revealed so far.

Luke grimaced silently and leaned back in his chair. Of all the times…

“I could, I suppose, but I’ve got this thing I want to look into, too. Is this, ah, family situation--" his inflection on those two words gave tell to his feelings on the subject--"something urgent or can it wait a day or two?”

"It can't wait." She sighed. "I guess I can go, if you have a thing to look into. It's just that I'm worried it might get more involved than what I can handle. Otherwise, I wouldn't have asked." He could tell by her tone that the prospect of taking care of whatever this was, didn't appeal to her.

Luke rolled his eyes and tried to keep it out of his voice. This was exactly the sort of thing he’d been afraid of; the family using the heroes as their own personal errand boys. The team hadn’t even been formed yet and he was already getting calls.

“Okay,” he said after a moment’s pause. “Tell me what it is and I’ll see if I can work something out.”

"Deal." There it was, that was usually Phi's indicator that she was willing to level with him. He could tell from the time he'd spent with her that she walked a fine line between what she was suppose to divulge and what she did. On more than one occasion she'd offered him more than she should have, but it had been clear that she did so because she didn't want him to walk away from the opportunity.

"A woman that was blackmailing my cousin was murdered last night, or earlier today, I don't know the specifics. ...Uhg." She paused again and sounded a bit more in control as she continued. "He isn't a suspect yet, but the woman claimed to be pregnant with his child, and the child was missing from the murder scene. I would like to prevent this from becoming a scandal...and it doesn't seem like the authorities are following up on it. Which will look really bad when the press catches wind of it. ...BUT... scandals aside, there might have been some ritualistic things involved. It just sounds bad and not just bad for my family."

No way, he thought, sitting forward in his chair once more. No way is this the same….

“Okay. How--?” He stopped, unsure of what question he wanted to ask. Unsure of what answers he wanted in return. “This woman, was she…? I mean, what other details do you have?”

"I don't know, Luke. It's all rather upsetting and I don't think I'm getting the whole story on my end. I rarely get involved in this kind of stuff, but my cousin was scared and didn't know who else could help him." There was another uncomfortable pause before she continued.

"From what I gather a detective from homicide called him to let him know that there was something linking him to the woman that was murdered. Umberto spared me the details, but he said it was savage and that her unborn child was missing from the scene. I can go and get some more details, but...I have to be honest with you, I find this kind of stuff ... well .... I guess it freaks me out." Her tone had turned hesitant, before she continued in a confidential manner, "This cousin isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, and I can assure you that he hasn't handled things well thus far. But despite all that, he had nothing to do with what happened, I'm certain of that."

Luke hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath until he let out in one long whispered whistle.

You’ve got to be shitting me, he thought. A pen was gripped in his hand, forgotten as the implications of what he was being told began to sink in. He’d jotted down a few pertinent facts but as Ophilia continued he felt a knot in his stomach.

"I've asked my cousin to contact that paranormal psychic that I mentioned. He helped us out a few years ago with a sensitive family matter. If Umberto or he can somehow find the crime scene, this guy has a way to sense things and should be able to find out what happened to the baby. Or at least if the baby is alive or dead." It was easy to tell that Ophilia was unsettled by the situation, from the flat quality of her tone.

”The baby’s alive.” Luke spoke without realizing he’d uttered the words aloud. As soon as he said them, however, he knew it was true. “Or it was when they took it,” he amended. He swallowed—his mouth was dry--trying to gather his thoughts.

“Phi, listen.” He spoke hard on the heels of his earlier comment in order to forestall any interruption. His mind was already starting to put things in place. He was going to have to talk to Cleve, that much was certain. And he was likely going to have to do it as Nemesis. “Please tell me you’ve given me everything. If you know something else, don’t hold back. If you think your cousin has more info then go back and get him to tell you. Whatever you got, whatever you can get me--” He trailed off, already scribbling ideas again. The cop in him was already working the case, but the vigilante was already building a file on the family. That meant that her cousin—Umberto, she’d called him—was a suspect, in his eyes if not the HCPD’s. “Anything you got,” he finished, just to say something while he wrote.

The line was quiet for a moment as she thought on his question. "That's about all I have. I don't think talking to him again will help, he's shut down. I don't know if this will be of any use, but I suspect this evidences, whatever it was that connected Umberto to the woman, won't see the light of day. He told me it was a check. As far as the ritualistic stuff, he didn't know anything about that, it was mentioned in passing by the detective when he spoke to him."

"I hope you're right about the baby. If she is OK, I'd like for her to be found and turned over to the authorities and whoever is responsible for this... whoever could do something like this needs to be caught." He had an odd sensation, like he could almost feel her shudder on the other end of the phone.

Luke silently agreed but refrained from comment. Getting the baby back wasn’t his top priority: finding whoever was doing this took precedent. If he could find the baby--babies, he mentally corrected himself—then so much the better. A thought occurred to him and he made another note.

"I appreciate you looking into this. I owe you one." Her tone was lighter now, obviously relieved not to have to take care of this. He'd gotten the impression from the time that they had spent together that she was a very competent and determined person, but that she was eager to hand things off when they weren't in her area of expertise.

Luke opened his mouth to say that no, she didn’t, but stopped himself. “No, you don’t,” he said instead. “Your cousin does. Now, who’s this guy I’m supposed to meet and how is this gonna work?”

A short while later he was off of the phone. Ophilia didn't have all of the details yet but assured him that she would let him know when and where he was to meet Avatar. She also reminded him that she was quite serious about recruiting him for the team, if he was for real. Her tone had indicated that she was more than a bit skeptical.

*****

By the time Edison got back to the gallery, Umberto's silver convertible was parked out front. Ed popped his head into the gallery to toss down a plastic bag of alleged foodstuffs, and toss out a vague excuse to his partner. He slid into the passenger seat of the Saab and put on an empathetic face.

"You okay, buddy?" he asked. "What's up?"

Umberto looked keyed up. As a matter of fact, Edison suspected he was high. "I'm in some serious shit. I couldn't think of what to do, so I called my cousin, Ophilia. You know...the one, I've told you about her, and she thought you might be able to help me. I wish I'd have thought of that before I drug her into this." There was a note of true remorse in his voice, whatever it was he wished that he could have avoided telling his cousin.

"Hey, hey, we'll figure it out," Edison soothed, patting Umberto's shoulder for emphasis. It was interesting to see cracks in the man's armor of privilege and arrogance.

"I just didn't know what to do, man. I got a call from this detective about a woman who was murdered, and she had a check from me that she hadn't cashed yet." He bowed his head into the steering wheel, and then pounded his forehead against it with considerable force. "I had nothing to do with her murder, nothing, I just gave her the money to make her go away. She was blackmailing me and I didn't want to get the family involved."

Alarms were going off in Edison's head. These were deeper waters than he cared to sail, especially if Umberto's own cousin didn't want to help. Had he attached himself to a loser? Could he give Umberto the brush?

"Umberto, chill," he said. "We'll figure out what to do, okay? I'm just not clear on what I can do."

The man still had his head buried in the steering wheel as he began his story. "The woman, the one that was blackmailing me, claimed to be pregnant with my child. Anyway, she was almost full term, bitching about getting a paternity test and this and that. I was happy to hear that someone took care of the problem, until they told me that the baby was missing. Somebody cut the baby out of the bitch before she died. I need you to tell me if the baby is dead or alive, and what the fuck happened. I just need to know that somebody isn't using this to get at me somehow."

"Before she died? Jesus." Ed leaned back into his seat and contemplated what kind of freak would do something like that. Or what kind of freak would make it all about him. This was the real Umberto, a bigger piece of shit than Ed had suspected. And yet even now, Berto still had that veneer of sophistication that Ed had studied but never fully mastered. It was infuriating.

"I can talk to my contact in homicide," he thought aloud. "See what I can shake loose from her..."

Umberto lifted his head up and turned to look at Edison, his face already showing some signs of relief. "I figured if she could tell you where the whore was murdered, you could do that thing you do. Yeah?"

"Yeah..." Ed replied slowly. "But then I think you need a private investigator, not a dilettante."

"Ophilia said that I needed to keep her in the loop. I think she's going to meet us there, or send someone else to help you. She told me it was best if I stayed out of this. What do you think?" He looked at Edison with his dark clueless eyes, vulnerable and totally under the command of his friend.

"I think you should leave it to me," Edison smiled. The look of dumb gratitude on Umberto's face was one that Ed wouldn't soon forget. And he'd make sure his friend never forgot what he owed him. Having leverage on a DiSantiago was worth a little risk.

"Now Berto," he continued smoothly, "you're going to have to tell me everything. Maybe your cousin thinks she's too good to hear this kind of stuff, but it's just us now."

Umberto shook his head defensively. "I don't know what there is to tell. I likely slept with her and I could have knocked her up. It seemed easier at the time to just buckle to her demands, and pay the blackmail. My family would have had a hissy fit if they'd have found out. But the bitch that I saw wasn't the same woman that I hooked up with. Something happened to her, likely drugs, I guess. I'd never touch a ratty skank whore like that, no way in hell. I just needed her to go away, but I didn't kill her... No fucking way did I touch her. No fucking way."

"I know you didn't," said Edison. "I'm on your side, remember?" He reached out smoothed Umberto's hair. His friend's eyes were bloodshot, the pupils huge. Whatever he was on, it was feeding his anxiety. Maybe it would be better to have this conversation later, after he'd slept it off.

"The more you can tell me," Edison said patiently, "the more I can help you. But we can go over the details later. Right now I need the name of this woman, and the detective who interviewed you."

"The woman was Darcey, I don't know her last name. The detective was Ivers. He said that he'd bury this, so I don't know...maybe you shouldn't talk to your contact." He bowed his head into the steering wheel again. "I don't know. I just don't know."

Edison's hand was steady as he stroked Umberto's hair a few more times, but anger was roaring through him like a runaway train. He'd decided to stick his neck out, and now the ungrateful little shit was changing his mind? Fuck Umberto and all his mixed signals.

There was a few moments of silence before Umberto straightened himself back up. "What else? ...what else... Oh! Ivers said there were some things that looked ritualistic, so that I had that going for me. He said that sometimes freaks did that sort of stuff."

"And do you know when the, the crime, occurred?"

"Last night? This morning? He asked me where I was last night and early this morning, so I assume that's when the bitch was murdered. Fucking whore, like she hadn't already ruined my life enough." Edison could tell that Umberto's depression was quickly changing into aggression, his voice dripped more with disgust and anger now, than it did self pity.

"Okay," Edison sighed. "That's enough for me to get started." He smoothed his face into a soft smile and lightly added, "It's my professional opinion that you look like shit. Go home, unwind, take a Valium or sleeping pill or whatever."

It was a very relieved Umberto DiSantiago that drove away, leaving his problem and his friend behind, to take care of them.< Edison wondered if he'd lose any sleep over it, but kind of doubted it. With tomorrow nights show ahead of him, he wasn't looking forward to losing his entire evening to cleaning up after a DiSantiago.