He ran a hand through his already mussed hair. “We don’t know yet. The deposit box belongs to a Mr. Tony Ross, and we’re still trying to get hold of him. Phelps!”
The younger detective looked up from his own conversation.
“Boss?”
“Get Jenny to enhance the vault file, will you? I need to know what’s in the case. And don’t call me boss.”
“On it, boss.” Phelps frowned at me and turned away, pulling his cell phone. Like so many now, he wasn’t a fan.
“Anything else I missed?” Fisher asked.
“No,” I said, ignoring Phelps. “What did she leave on the table?”
“Now that is interesting.” He brought up another file. It was a picture of a business card. No name or other contact information; just a red symbol on white card stock. The head of some animal? It looked...
“Is that a fox?”
He shrugged. “Could be, don’t know. Jenny’s looking for a match in the database. I’ll tell her your guess; might help. Are you ready to go in?”
I nodded. The official excuse for my presence, instead of a more experienced Sentinel, was my super-duper senses. My breakthrough last September had given me the full Atlas-type power package: the power to fly, bench-press buses, survive hits from military ordinance, and hugely expanded and sharpened senses. My visual range had expanded into the telescopic and came darn close to microscopic.
Detective Cramer waited for us in the hall outside the vault with their forensic team, and he handed me a stack of markers as I slipped a pair of foot covers over my boots. He was friendlier than Phelps. While the two of them stood in the doorway I lifted a couple of inches and drifted into the vault.
“Semtex,” I said, and Fisher nodded. The sharp (to me) smell of the shaped charge lingered even in the well-ventilated air of the vault. Scanning the floor in front of me as I went, I placed a couple of markers. “Hair, short. Street stuff.” I circled the room, placing more markers over pieces of explosive and lock. The card was still on the table, and I leaned in. I wasn’t good enough to see fingerprints unaided, but... I sniffed.
I looked up. “Chanel Number Five.” Fisher made another note while I did a final circuit. I’m sure I didn’t find any trace the team would have missed, but they didn’t seem to resent it and the job was good public relations—the public liked to see superheroes at superhuman crime scenes. Atlas had done this for years, and when Blackstone gave me the job Fisher and his people took me through a see-and-sniff crash course of crime scene trace. My education was nowhere near complete (one more thing for me to study), but I was getting pretty confident.
I stepped out and the team went in, moving just as carefully. Five minutes later I was on my way. I nodded politely to the waiting press as I took off, ignored the questions they fired at me (most having nothing to do with the robbery), and wondered if I would ever hear the details on this one. As it turned out, I’d wish I hadn’t.
Chapter Three
The US Senate voted on the Domestic Security Act today, securing passage by only nine votes. President Touches Clouds vetoed the bill, which leaves it dead in Congress unless its advocates can somehow muster eight additional votes. If passed, the law will require all superhumans to register with the Department of Superhuman Affairs and place all superhuman crimes under federal jurisdiction. Inspired by the catastrophic loss of life during the California earthquake deliberately triggered by a mentally unstable terrakinetic, the bill is tremendously popular with large parts of the American public. It is also loudly opposed by many superheroes, notably including Astra of the Chicago Sentinels. Critics of the bill argue that it detracts from the effort to secure the country against another attack by The Ring, the transnational super-terrorist group that attacked the President at Whittier Base in the wake of the California quake.
The Chicago Times
* * *
For me Spring Quarter at the University of Chicago meant three classes and a lab. I maintained a true secret identity, which meant that unlike most superheroes I could still take off my mask and disappear into plain Hope Corrigan. No emergencies, no cameras or newsies, pure bliss. Getting out of class Wednesday evening, I dropped by the Bee’s rooms in Palevsky Commons. Julie and Megan were out, but Annabeth answered the door.