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Herr D

ETS: Djinn And Tony, Part 9

The Shadow appeared in the doorway. Slowly the eyebrows turned light gray and raised in surprise. “How!?” He recovered. “What happened HERE?! How could you make such a MESS? I was in here five minutes ago! You don’t have that many lackeys LEFT to kill!” He pulled up one of the dismembered hands and examined the fingers. The right size, but not pink enough to look right on a bun. The big body stretched out twelve feet and half-melted had lumps sticking out of his dead mid-section. The Shadow poked at it. “Gyro,” he thought.
Mike, the Leader, nodded as he warily watched the Shadow poke idly at the dead bodies. Mike noticed the Shadow displayed no sign of attachment. “You’re right. Those were heroes. Check Security. If they’ve been arrested or the police are on their way, we may have to move quickly. Then come here and let me know. I’ll call the cleaning crew.”
The Shadow nodded slowly, incredulous, trying to imagine a bus full of vegans shaking their pointer fingers at him. He startled then. “I should check and see if there is a warrant for this address or your legal name, if they’ve figured that out. I’ll be gone longer for that.”
Mike nodded wordlessly, cupping a hand over the phone. He pulled his driver’s license out of his pocket and expertly flipped it right into the Shadow’s hand.
The Shadow melted into the darkness. Several minutes later, six blocks away at the police station, an officer left his terminal for the bathroom. The Shadow stepped up to it, fingers flying. The screen showed no active warrants for the area of the Leader’s penthouse. Not so much as a noise complaint—which did seem odd. The Shadow shook his inky-black head. He typed in searches for the owners of the three buildings surrounding the Leader’s building on the three sides away from the ocean. One at a time, he discovered them. After two minutes of straight typing, he leaned back. One warehouse, one factory with permits to operate during daylight hours only, and one housing project for the deaf. All of them partly owned by one Michael Ledraheim. No warrants out for the Leader. The Shadow shook his head in wonderment again. He looked at the ordinary driver’s license in his hand for a moment. Then, he googled the name in desperation. After a few mouse clicks, the Shadow smiled an ugly smile. He glanced at the policeman’s half-eaten meal in the garbage, nodding. “One with and mustard.” He smiled that ugly smile all the way back.