Slowly, Lois’ senses came online. Her eyes opened onto a dark room missing the comforting outlines and scents of her own bedroom. Someone’s kidnapped me again, she thought. They’ll try to get some information from me or make me call for Superman or –
No!
She lurched up and nearly fell off the badly worn mattress. She hadn’t been kidnapped. She was dying of cancer and she’d shot two men and she was hunting for the Boss and she was going to take him down with her last breath—
And she really, really needed to go to the bathroom.
The thrift store sweat suit and the towels and T-shirts and such that she’d stuffed inside the sweat suit made it difficult to complete her necessary errand, but she got there in time. After she flushed the toilet and rinsed her hands – there was no soap in the bathroom – she realized how bad she smelled. Her first thought was to ignore her fetid odor and consider it part of her camouflage, but then a thought tapped her on the shoulder.
After Big Mike’s report, Robertson, her next target, would be on the alert for a homeless, smelly, fat blonde. But he might not be so cautious around a slender, sexy brunette in a short black dress.
That was the ticket. She could use the hair from her chubby blonde disguise to scope out Robertson’s office and home, but her sexy seductress model was the way to get close to him. And the T-bird wouldn’t work for this phase. She could use the car theft skills Jimmy had taught her during the Messenger crisis to pick up a much nicer ride when it was time to move on Robertson.
The plan was risky, of course, and it would take several days to bring it to fruition, but there was no gain without risk. And since she only had a few months to live anyway, the risks weren’t that great. Get arrested? Die in jail waiting for trial. Get killed? Die a little earlier than planned, and almost surely a lot quicker and with less pain. And if Lois Lane feared anything, it was dying alone in a hospital bed in agony against which no drug could defend.
She shook her head at herself. No slow death or hiding until the end for Lois Lane. She’d face death on her own terms and leave a legacy of justice behind her.
*****
Alan Robertson sat at his office desk and frowned at the scribbled note from one of his off-the-books operatives. There was still no word about Mike Pittman or Roger Kowalski. The man who’d checked Mike’s office had found old blood on the floor but no bodies or signs of death. The big man’s van was gone, along with some of his possessions, so apparently they had simply fled.
But that made no sense. Robertson’s contacts in the police department hadn’t heard anything about a case against Pittman or Kowalski. They hadn’t been arrested, they weren’t in any of the District Attorney’s safe houses, and they weren’t anywhere around their usual haunts. So where were they?
More importantly, why were they missing?
It was late in the evening and he was tired. The backlog of collections Pittman had left behind had resulted in more work for two of Robertson’s other subordinates, which was a violation of the guidelines he’d been ‘strongly advised’ to follow in his illegal activities. He understood that by restricting contact between his criminal associates, he would make it harder for law enforcement to use any of them to get to the others and, ultimately, to him. But in order to make his own scheduled payments, someone had to collect from Pittman’s clients, and that meant some additional expenses for him as well as some unavoidable cross-contact in the lower levels.
He had two candidates who might take Pittman’s place, but he had to be careful. The worst thing he could do would be to set up a competition among his associates which might turn violent. Such violence would bring unwanted attention on his own activities, and he was satisfied with appearing to be a mid-level contract attorney and conservative certified public accountant. He might have been a tall, fierce-looking black man with a shaved head and manicured goatee who kept himself in better shape than most his age, but he both hated and feared violence, especially when it might be directed at himself. And the people who reported to him knew that. It made a troubling situation even more dicey than it might have been.
It was time to go home, such as it was. His strikingly beautiful but amoral younger wife, whom he had wed in order to appear more socially acceptable, and who had no inkling of his extra-curricular activities and less interest in them, might or might not be waiting for him. He neither knew nor cared if she’d snagged a new boy-toy. Her freedom to live as she wished was his insurance that she wouldn’t rock the boat for him, so long as he financed her lifestyle. She was just part of the law-abiding disguise he wore. Robertson was just happy that she’d never gotten pregnant.
On top of the Pittman matter was the strange woman with blonde highlights in her brunette hair who seemed to be following him. He’d noticed her at lunch the day before and again today. And today they’d made eye contact as she’d dabbed her mouth with her napkin. As she’d left, she’d paused beside his table for just a few moments and looked directly at him. Her smile and slow wink had completely disconcerted him, and she’d walked away with an exaggerated hip sway before he’d recovered his equilibrium and say anything to her.
Alan Robertson wasn’t a social moron. He’d understood the offer she’d made, and she wondered if she’d been Pittman’s woman for a time. How else could she have known who he was? Could it have been a coincidence, her coming on to him so soon after the Pittman trouble?
He didn’t think it was a coincidence. Like most law enforcement officials, he deeply distrusted that such things actually existed. But he didn’t think this woman was Pittman’s type, either. He would have expected Big Mike to – what was that crude phrase – oh, yes, “hook up” with a loud, brassy, slightly sleazy and barely legal nitwit, not the elegant and obviously intelligent woman he’d seen.
And none of those thoughts helped him in the Pittman matter. Where was the man?
A call to his best police informant – which he knew his supervisor would not think prudent – had yielded nothing. Not only was there no investigation under way which might point to him, the MPD seemed to have no knowledge of his function, much less his existence in the Boss’ hierarchy. His own superior in that chain was a successful marriage therapist who’d declined three different offers to move her local show into wider radio syndication.
Robertson also knew for a fact that she was ruthless with underlings who made serious mistakes. He personally knew of one young man she’d ordered beheaded because he’d blown a neighborhood numbers ring apart through his own greed in selling tickets to a police informer. There was no way Robertson was going to admit to Dr. Jenna Leibowitz that he’d misplaced one of his operatives. Nor did he have any desire to draw attention to himself, either from the police or from Dr. Leibowitz.
There was no point in staying at the office tonight. It was too late to accomplish anything positive. He’d go out the street, call a cab, and go home.
But when he stepped out of the building, he found the fetching brunette in front of his office in a light blue late-model Porsche with the top down, the twelve-cylinder model that could accelerate from zero to awesome in three heartbeats, or so the advertising copy said. She smiled coyly from under her blonde highlights and leaned her shoulder against the driver’s door.
“I thought you were going to spend the night in there, Mr. Robertson. Don’t you think you’d have more fun with me than with your clients’ tax records?”
Many criminals were sex-crazed. Many were open to the illicit opportunities afforded them by their position and their money. And many were just too dumb to look at the big picture and wonder why a beautiful woman with a sports car carrying a high six-figure price and exhibiting a willing attitude would be waiting for him at the end of the day.
Alan Robertson was none of those things. This woman wanted something from him. And she looked distantly familiar somehow, as if he’d seen her photo before but not her.
He stepped closer. “How do you know my name, young lady?”
She smiled wider and tossed her hair away from her exotic eyes with a graceful head flip. “I asked around. Besides, it’s on the building directory. Not exactly a secret.”
“Very well. What is it you want from me?”
She tilted her head to one side and her hair fell artfully to her eyebrows. “I’m in town for a couple of weeks, I’m between photo shoots, male models are generally dumb and boring and self-absorbed if not completely brain-dead, the production people treat us like props that eat and get special treatment for no good reason, and I just thought I’d like to spend some time in the company of a man who knows the difference between a salad fork and a tuning fork.”
“Photo shoots?”
“I’m a magazine model. I do print ads for perfumes, credit cards, shoes, TV shows, whatever they pay me to do.” She straightened and held her right hand out of the car. “My name is Lola Dane, and advertising things is my game.”
Ah. That had to be it, that had to be the reason she looked so familiar. He must have seen her face in some magazine ad somewhere. The name meant nothing to him, but then he didn’t know the names of any of the female artists on Billboard’s Top Forty list or any Oscar-nominated actresses either.
Lola Dane was a beautiful woman. That was a stunning automobile. Alan worked hard, maybe too hard, and perhaps tonight was an opportunity to change that circumstance.
He slowly stepped closer and took her hand gently. “You don’t sound like I imagined a model would sound.”
“Really? How would you have expected me to sound?”
“I would have expected you to sound self-absorbed, self-centered, and quite vapid. That’s not how you sound at all.” He ventured a thin smile. “You have excellent diction, for one thing, along with a very pleasing voice. And you appear to – as you phrased it a moment ago – know the difference between a salad fork and a tuning fork.”
She laughed softly. “I have been hoist upon my own petard, I suppose.”
The laugh and her response clinched it for him. She couldn’t have any connection to his missing operative. No dumb mob girlfriend would be so willing to laugh at herself or to use such an archaic metaphor. “What are you plans for the evening, Ms. Dane?”
“Right now they’re wide open. If you know of a good restaurant where we could be inconspicuous, I’d go for that.”
He smiled. “I know just the place.”
*****
Bill Henderson usually wasn’t a pacing man, especially in another person’s office, but today he couldn’t be still. “C’mon, Perry!” Bill insisted. “There’s got to be some way to contact Lane, some way she’d know it was you and not someone else trying to trap her!”
“Like a secret newsman’s code?” Perry offered. “Sorry, there ain’t no such thing. If Lois doesn’t want to be found—“
“I know, I know! But I have a responsibility to this city to keep people safe!”
“Even criminals, Inspector?” Clark asked.
Henderson whirled to face him. “You knew the answer to that one before you asked it, Kent! I took an oath to enforce the law for the benefit of every person in this city!”
“What about this ‘Boss’ we’ve been hearing rumors about, Bill?” Perry asked. “If Lois is goin’ after this guy, she’s probably not gonna stop until she’s found him.”
“Yeah, you said that already,” Henderson retorted. He stuck one hand in his pants pocket and resumed pacing. “I still don’t understand why you can’t broadcast an appeal for her to come in.”
Clark frowned and sat forward. “Is that what you’d do if you wanted one of your people to come back to base?”
“This is different! My people wouldn’t be out there doing a Lone Ranger impersonation! She doesn’t even have a Tonto to watch her back!”
“Bill, I won’t put that kind of appeal in the Daily Planet. I can’t. Not only would it destroy her effectiveness as an investigative reporter for the rest of her life, it would put half the bad guys in the state on her trail to kill her.” Perry paused. “Look, I know you’re worried about her. So are we. It’s been six days since she had that run-in with Mike what’s-his-name. She’ll pop up soon, I’m sure.”
“And before she pops up like a Lois-in-the-box, will we have another emergency room case, or maybe a body this time? I can pretty much guarantee you we won’t be able to keep that out of the media. We were just lucky Mike and Ski skipped town instead of staying and taking their medicine.”
Clark almost grinned. “I got the impression that they thought their ‘medicine’ would have been too much to take.”
Perry forestalled Bill’s sharp reply by asking, “Have your people found that old T-bird yet? Clark gave you a good description of it. There can’t be that many cars like that in the city.”
Bill turned his piercing gaze to the editor’s layered and much-callused armor. “Both foot and car patrols have been warned to be on the lookout for the car, but there’s not much chance of finding it except by luck. All we’ve found so far is a guy who put an ad in the paper who might have sold her the car. I wish you’d gotten the license number, Clark.”
“I did my best, Inspector. At least we know what car she’s driving.”
Perry frowned and tilted his head. “Shouldn’t the seller have the license number?”
Henderson sighed. “It was a curbside deal. The guy had an expired plate on the car and he never expected the police to come knocking on his door looking for either him or the T-bird. I figure Lois grabbed a plate off some junker in a salvage lot or from a long-term parking garage to lower the chance of getting a ticket.”
Clark nodded. “That sounds like Lois being resourceful.”
Before Henderson could make a pithy comment about Lois’ resourcefulness, Jimmy opened the office door and leaned in. “Inspector, call for you on line three.”
“Tell them I’ll call them back.”
“Uh – it’s the District Attorney’s office, sir. The person on the other end of the call didn’t sound like she was willing to wait.”
“All right, fine, I’ll take it!” Henderson picked up the phone and punched the button as Perry fixed Jimmy with a hound-dog look and asked, “This about Lois, son?”
Jimmy frowned and took a deep breath. “Yeah. And I’m pretty sure none of you will like it.”
Perry pointed at Henderson and mouthed ‘tell me now’ at Jimmy, but the young man shook his head and closed the office door. Clark lifted his shoulders at Perry, who shrugged and pointed at Henderson.
The editor and the reporter listened to one side of the conversation. It had many long pauses and two eyebrow raises in it. Perry couldn’t hear the words the caller spoke, just the tone, but due to his long experience with angry women, he recognized one when he heard her.
“Henderson speaking. Oh? Yes, ma’am. Of course. Yes. No, I did not know. That’s – very interesting. Yes, ma’am. Of course. Thank you for the call. As soon as I know anything. Yes, ma’am, I understand completely. Goodbye.”
Henderson sighed, then put down the phone and grimaced at it. “That was Assistant District Attorney Mayson Drake. Her office has just received new information on the activities of one Lois Lane, fugitive from justice. As you have probably already deduced, Ms. Drake is not at all enamored with the ongoing activities of one Lois Lane, fugitive from justice.”
Perry and Clark leaned forward together. Perry said, “C’mon, Bill, don’t keep us in suspense! What happened?”
Henderson sighed again and put both hands in his pockets. “Two days ago, Lois Lane, fugitive from justice, stole a year-old Porsche from a dealer’s home in Gotham City. She – Wait a minute, Kent! Let me tell the story and you’ll know how we know it was her!”
Clark closed his mouth and made a ‘go-ahead’ gesture with his hand. Henderson continued, “As I said, she stole the Porsche – light blue, twelve cylinder engine if it makes a difference – and used it as a prop to entice Mr. Alan Robertson to ‘go away’ with her for the evening. Unfortunately for Mr. Robertson, his idea of a night on the town with a beautiful model did not intersect with Lola Dane’s idea of the same activity.”
“Lola Dane?” spluttered Clark. “You’re saying that Lois used that name with Robertson?”
“That’s what Robertson says. Now listen close, because the next part is a doozie. I, personally, have never heard of Mr. Alan Robertson, nor was I aware of his position in Metropolis’ criminal hierarchy, but Ms. Drake told me that Lois Lane, fugitive from justice – Ms. Drake repeated that phrase numerous times during our conversation, emphasizing it very strongly each time – took Mr. Robertson to a very nice restaurant two nights ago and plied him with food and drink. She also plied him with Rohypnol, commonly referred to as ‘roofies,’ a date-rape drug which made him very compliant. He therefore did not find objectionable her plan to drive across the river to Gotham City, enter an isolated and empty warehouse on the riverfront, and question him about his ties to the Boss here in Metropolis.”
Perry leaned back as Henderson paused. “Let me guess the rest. She questioned him about his connections and he spilled his guts to her.”
Henderson nodded. “Something along that line. He also picked up a thirty-eight special bullet wound from point-blank range in his left upper arm – Mr. Robertson is right-handed, something Lola Dane asked him early on in her interrogation – and that appears to have been the impetus for much of his soul-baring confession to her, or at least the illegal parts.”
“And how do we know all this?” Clark asked. “Did the forward-thinking and resourceful Lois Lane, fugitive from justice, happen to leave a record of her time with the estimable Mr. Robertson?”
Perry looked at his reporter and said, “Son, you need to save your adjectives for your articles. Don’t want you to run out when you really need one.”
Henderson snorted. “I’m glad you both find this so amusing. Yes, she did leave a tape recording of their session, in which she not only identified herself but gave a pretty complete rundown of Robertson’s criminal activities and his organization, including some interesting details on the missing Mike Pittman and his rackets. Gotham’s DA got it from their caped vigilante, the Bat-guy, or whatever his handle is—“
“He’s Batman,” growled Clark from the back of his throat.
Henderson favored him with a piercing deadpan stare. “Thank you for that informative and timely interlude, Mr. Kent. May I continue?”
“Oh, I hope so, Inspector,” Clark replied.
“I appreciate your generosity. Anyway, the Gotham City DA has generously shared a copy of Robertson’s tape with us for ‘future considerations,’ if you know what I mean.”
“They’ve scratched our back, you’ll need to scratch theirs sometime in the near future,” offered Perry.
“Right in one try. The Gotham City District Attorney’s office is launching a couple of investigations as we speak as a result of the information contained on that tape. Anyway, Robertson now denies everything he said on the tape, but while under the influence of the drug he named the person to whom he reports. We’re currently trying to arrange police protection for this person in exchange for information about the person to whom that person reports.”
Perry frowned. “Pretty detailed, Bill, except for the last bit with all the ‘persons’ in there.”
“Sorry, Perry, but I can’t give you any more than that. Direct orders.”
“Any idea who the next one up the chain is?”
“No, Kent, I don’t, and I couldn’t tell you if I did know.” Henderson moved toward the door. “I have to get back to the office and do some police work. If I get anything we can release for publication, I’ll call you guys first, but don’t hold your breath waiting.”
The door closed behind Henderson as Perry leaned forward. “Well, what do you think about that?”
Clark shook his head. “That’s our Lois. I can’t wait to hear that tape.”
“You may have to wait a good while. The DA’s office won’t release it to the public before Robertson is arraigned, and maybe not even after that.”
“I bet I could get a copy of the transcript. I know one of the clerks at the DA’s office pretty well.”
“You probably could at that.” He sighed deeply. “As interesting as all this has been, it doesn’t get us any closer to finding Lois.”
Clark’s mouth quirked. “Maybe, maybe not. I have an idea that might give us another lead.”
“Does it have anything to do with confronting Alan Robertson?”
Clark’s mouth quirked again, then flattened out. “It might.”
“Uh-huh. Just don’t get arrested, son. I can’t afford to have both of you out of action.”
“I’ll be careful, I promise.”
“Good. Now, before you go rattle Mr. Robertson’s cage, do you think you could condescend to finish up the Formula One race cheating story? We need it for the morning sports section.”
*****
The Porsche was gone, abandoned outside a night club in Gotham City that, oddly enough, featured a facade over the entrance which resembled the entrance to a giant igloo. Lois had smoothly slipped into a knot of club patrons walking away from the main entrance, and no one seemed to notice the car. It was easy to slide away from them after a few blocks to pick up the T-bird one more time.
It was time to lose the old Ford too, and she felt a twinge of sadness at the thought. The car had served her well for several days, but its description was surely out on the street by now, even in Gotham. And she didn’t want to get the Batman on her trail, especially if he was real and not just an urban myth.
And now she had another name in the criminal chain, one that had deeply shocked her. Dr. Jenna Leibowitz’ sterling reputation as a marriage counselor spanned the entire state, went as far north as Maine, west into Pennsylvania, and south to Virginia, but apparently all that was just a cover for her real career. If Alan Robertson hadn’t lied to her – and she was certain that he’d been too frightened, too drugged, and too off-balance to lie, especially after she’d put a bullet through his arm – Jenna Leibowitz was the last person between herself and the Boss. So Jenna Leibowitz was her next target.
But Lois needed to vanish for a few days. There was a cab stand just around the corner from the bus station, and she could hang around there as a pudgy blonde for a few hours until there were cabs available after tomorrow morning’s rush hour. The cab could then take her close to the flophouse and to temporary safety. And she would use the time both to plan her approach and rest up after her ordeal.
It was getting easier to shoot them.
And it wasn’t clear to her if that was a good thing or not.
The one thing that was clear to her was that she could never allow her own therapist to know what she knew. Dr. Friskin almost idolized Jenna Leibowitz. She had all of the marriage counselor’s books on her shelf at her office, and Lois knew that several of them were signed. Two of them were even inscribed with personal messages. Friskin would find out eventually, but Lois would be gone by the time any trials rolled around. She didn’t want to die with the memory of disillusioning Dr. Friskin in her mind.
Another thought jumped into her mind. She’d left Robertson alert and terrified, and surely by now he’d relayed his experience to the evil doctor. Getting to Leibowitz now would be no picnic.
But she’d get there. She had to.
She still had a few weeks to live and one last big story to chisel on her tombstone as her epitaph.
*****
Perry glanced out his open office door and spotted what he interpreted as an angry Lex Luthor bearing down on him. He saw the White Shadow – Nigel St. John – disengage from Luthor’s heel and lean over Clark’s shoulder to say something to him.
Then Luthor was in his office and closing the door.
“Why do I have to hear from the police about Lois Lane’s activities? I thought we both understood that we would share all information about her.”
Perry shrugged. “I’m sorry, Mr. Luthor, sir. What I have is information about her from the police which I was told not to share with anyone. It was definitely not for publication.”
Luthor put both hands on the desk and leaned his face close to Perry’s. “Don’t forget, Mr. White, that you now work directly for me. And when someone works for me, he or she does exactly what I instruct him or her to do.”
“Like Lois?”
Luthor snapped back as if a wasp had stung his upper lip. “I am not responsible for Ms. Lane’s activities of the past fortnight. I am attempting to locate her in order to help her. After all, she and I are – seeing each other.”
“You mean you were seeing each other.”
“The status of my relationship with Lois Lane is not the subject of this conversation.”
“Maybe not, but I think it’s pertinent. She hasn’t confided in you any more than she has in me. I can understand her not contacting me because I’m her boss, but you were supposed to be a lot closer to her.”
“We are closer!”
Perry’s eyebrows rose and fell. “I really don’t think so, Mr. Luthor.”
Luthor’s eyes narrowed. “I can see that you do not intend to cooperate with me. Very well. I can always reassign more of your duties to Chip.”
Perry nodded and stood. “Yes, you could do that. But I wonder how many of my reporters would pay any attention to a young punk like Chip. Clark Kent is probably the nicest guy on the Planet’s payroll, but he’d eat your little Chipster for breakfast and have room left for a bag of bagels with cream cheese.”
“I am not in the habit—”
The argument was interrupted by a crash from outside. They both turned to see Nigel St. John rising up from behind a desk to straighten his tie. A few paces from the other side of the desk stood an obviously angry Clark Kent, his body turned to one side and his left arm extended slightly as if ready to defend himself.
And his fists were clenched.
Nigel squared off about five feet from Clark and said something Perry couldn’t hear, and before he could leave his office to stop the beating Clark was sure to get, Luthor burst through the door and jumped between the combatants.
“Not here, Nigel,” Perry heard, “and not now. We have another mission we have to complete first.”
Nigel, his breath hissing through his teeth, appeared not to be aware of his boss. “Nigel,” Luthor repeated, “not now! Maintain priorities at all times.”
Nigel’s eyes slowly lost their angry brightness and he nodded once. “This is not over, Mr. Kent. We will continue our conversation at a later date.”
Clark’s arms had relaxed to his sides and his hands were open, but his feet were still poised to move quickly. “Any time, Mr. St. John. You know where to find me.”
In a change from their usual manner, Luthor followed Nigel out of the newsroom, so close behind him that Luthor seemed to be pushing Nigel. Perry let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding as the elevator doors closed.
He turned to Clark. “You know you’ve just made yourself an enemy, don’t you?”
“Those two had already made themselves my enemies. I just dug the line in the sand a little deeper.”
“Uh-huh. About that – the line in the sand thing – what just happened?”
“Nigel hinted very strongly that I not only knew where Lois was and what she was doing, I was giving her logistical and financial assistance.”
“That’s stupid. We know she cleaned out her savings account the day she shot that gun dealer. And Luthor knows everything that goes on up here. He probably has people watching all of us.”
Clark nodded. “Nigel got mad and let something slip.” He turned to face his boss. “Just before I pretended to lose my temper, he said something about Lois climbing the food chain.”
“The food chain? What the heck does that mean?”
Clark grinned ever so slightly. “It means that Luthor – or at least Nigel – knows more about what Lois is trying to do than he’s letting on. It means that he has some definite connection to the Boss that Lois is hunting.”
Perry’s eyes narrowed. “You mean – are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Clark’s voice dropped even lower. “That Luthor is the Boss in Metropolis? I don’t know and I can’t prove it from the little that Nigel said. But I am sure that Luthor knows who that person is and what he or she plans to do in the next few days.”
Perry sighed. “That means that Lois is in more trouble than we thought.”
Clark’s hangdog look would have depressed Elvis. “Isn’t she always, chief?”
