Short part, this time.

Part Three

The air taxi landed, but no-one got out. Puzzled, those waiting looked at each other, then began to approach. Without warning, the air taxi abruptly took off and headed east, moving faster than the witnesses had ever seen one of those vehicles move before. The observers later learned that the rather simple electronic brain in the vehicle had discerned that the unresponsive passenger was injured and taken him quickly to the nearest hospital. Where the emergency room personnel determined that the man - a minor celebrity - was actually very thoroughly and gorily dead.

* * *

As Melody rode through the gates of the town of Haven on her trip back to the airport later that afternoon, she saw an Indiana State Police car approaching on the crossroad. Uncharacteristically, she didn't think anything of it, being preoccupied by other matters. As a result she missed being in on the beginning of a major story involving Aaron/Malak.

"Why are you arresting me?" said Aaron, as the uncomfortable-looking Indiana State policemen handcuffed him in his own living room. He wondered if this had something to do with the warrant the French police had out for him, but knew better than to ask possibly incriminating questions.

"Well, there's a warrant out for you from the New York police," said the senior officer, who was watching the procedure. He appeared to be professionally detached, but on closer examination obviously thought this was all a waste of time and effort. "Evangelist Sylvester Adamson was murdered during an aircab flight. They say that a review of the StrattoMaster's records show that someone entered it in mid-air on the trip, killed the passenger with a knife or sword, and departed. They say your fingerprints were found in the vehicle."

"None of that makes any sense," said Aaron, as they moved him outside to the State Police car. A small crown of townsfolk had gathered, and he kept things deliberately low-key. The officer in charge seemed to have the same intent. "I didn't know that man, I had no grudge against him, and even if I did, that's not how I'd kill someone."

"We didn't make out the warrant. We're just following it. Yeah, I know 'just following orders' isn't a valid excuse. We're doing our jobs, and those jobs currently involve arresting you. You'll probably be out on bail or your own recognizance before Noon tomorrow."

* * *

"They arrested Aaron LaBelle for the Adamson murder," said Sam Kingson, excitedly, as he interrupted the next morning's staff meeting at the New York Glory, arriving uncharacteristically late. "They're bringing him to the courthouse for booking. It's on the 3V, live!"

"I think the meeting can wait," said the recently appointed chief editor Harry Conyers. "Let's adjourn to the break room."

"He heard he was wanted in this case and turned himself in," said one of those already in the breakroom when the others entered.

"I heard he put twenty cops in the hospital before they subdued him!" said another.

Conyers shushed them, and a silence fell over the group. Someone turned up the volume, but there were only the ambient sounds around the camera to be heard.

The old 3V tank in the breakroom had finally been replaced with something much more modern, which did a better job and actually required less room for its equipment. All it had taken was a change in ownership followed a few months later by a change in upper management. The scene this new unit currently showed was outside the main entrance of the New York courthouse. Melody found it odd to be watching 3V in that room without the crowding required by the narrow angle of view of the old unit and without the cyan being just a bit out of adjustment. However, what was being shown quickly made her forget about nostalgia.

Aaron - in orange coveralls, handcuffs, chain belt and leg irons - was taken out of a New York City police car and escorted up the steps. The bindings had the characteristic, iridescent sheen of inertium. Though in this case that was probably a plating, to save money. Melody mused that people tended to forget just how strong Aaron was, remembering only that he could walk through walls. Also, she saw nothing to prevent him from simply changing to Malak and flying away, taking the bindings with him.

"Notice something," said their editor, pointing. "There's over a dozen police officers, armed with assault rifles and wearing the latest SWAT body armor, arrayed around the prisoner. They look intimidated, while LaBelle just looks... annoyed."

"Oh, they don't look intimidated," said Sam. He smirked. "They look worried. Some of them are obviously frightened."

"The might of an army concentrated in one man," said Melody, quietly. "That includes the weapons, by the way."

No 3V cameras were allowed inside the building so the broadcast switched to a newscaster in the studio making noises which were an attempt to sound informed while actually betraying that he knew nothing about the matter beyond what they had just seen.

"We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming," he said, finally, looking relieved.

* * *

Inside the courthouse, they took Aaron's fingerprints as a matter of record. However, the man who took them noticed something. He compared the still-wet inked marks with a reference card.

"They don't match your old prints," he announced. He looked suspiciously at Aaron. "Can you change your fingerprints?"

"Probably; I've never tried. However, I didn't change them. They are also the same in my Malak form. So if those are the set of prints which match what was found in the aircab that pretty much proves I didn't do it. I suspect someone pulled the wrong card."

"I, uh..." He shook his head. "No, this has your name on it."

Despite this discrepancy they went ahead and completed the booking process. However, a lawyer from the firm Aaron's Haven Foundation retained was already there, and had the empowered man out on bail in less than an hour. The police later told the press that they had only asked for Aaron to be brought in for questioning. Except that he was never questioned.

* * *

The preliminary hearing was held a few days later, and was largely perfunctory. Aaron and his lawyer arrived in mundane fashion, using a car belonging to the law firm. The hearing was very short and to the point and ended with the charges against Aaron being dropped. Which showed that those in charge knew a mistake had been made and were in a hurry to get things over with.

"The deceased was Evangelist Sylvester Adamson," said the prosecutor.

"I never heard of him before this."

"He railed against you, calling you a false angel."

"I didn't even know about that. Many people have called me such, and some still are doing so. Since I have repeatedly and consistently denied being an angel those claims are nonsensical, anyway. I tend to ignore them."

All the prosecution had was vague accusations, accompanied by the claim that the man must have been killed by Malak, since he had motive and could have intercepted the aircab in flight. Aaron's attorney responded that the deceased had said worse about many others, and that there were several flying empowered, including a few criminals, in the area. Some of whom were known to be for killers for hire. A few characteristically employed knives, or had a power which could emulate the effects of a blade.

The prosecution yielded the point and moved that the proceedings be concluded. Aaron wasn't even asked if he could provide an alibi.

* * *

Afterwards, Aaron and his attorney gave a press conference on the courthouse steps.

"I could be saving lives, making the world a better place," said Aaron at one point, obviously bitter. "Instead, I'm defending myself in court from baseless accusations."

Most of the reporters were too intimidated by Aaron to ask questions, but Melody and a few others wanted details. Most of the answers were provided by the attorney. None of the questions or answers were particularly revealing.

"Any idea what was behind this?" someone shouted, beating Melody.

"I have - like many empowered - occasionally been the target of official bigotry. This doesn't feel like that. It ended too quickly and easily. As if the authorities themselves were victims as much as I was. I am left mystified."

He paused momentarily. Melody later learned that he had almost said "I feel no sense of measure" only to realize before he spoke that there just might be a connection with the monster attack at the D-Day commemoration ceremonies.

"Do the police have any leads on who actually killed Adamson?" shouted Melody, taking advantage of the pause.

"They do not," said the attorney.

"I suspect it is whoever those fingerprints from the aircab actually belong to," said Aaron, smoothly covering his revelation. He shrugged. "Perhaps, if the responsible party were careless or lazy, the police can find the card with my prints and the name on it will actually be that of the culprit. I suspect that the alteration of records is more thorough than that, though."

* * *

"This meal would be a lot more enjoyable if you looked more feminine," muttered Michael Schmierer, over breakfast in his kitchenette/meal nook a few days later.

"Like this?" said Mannequin, as they shifted from their usual, pale-skinned androgyny to a dark-hued Latin beauty.

"Well, that makes it more enjoyable, but you are now also more distracting."

"You're sure your secretary doesn't mind, well, us?"

"She's happily married with three children," said Michael. "Besides, 'us' is you using my spare bedroom."

"It could be a lot more," purred Mannequin. They briefly considered rubbing the top of their foot on the PI's calf, but held their libido in check. They had quickly learned that Michael had an aversion to physical affection. Something Mannequin was determined to help him with, but at the detective's own pace.

"Well, thank you for the meal," said Michael. "You're a good cook, besides having many other talents. However, I need to get to work. Someone's daughter is missing."

"I need to get to my job, as well."

* * *

Having someone come to Haven to petition Aaron directly was not unusual. This individual - one Allan Farsyd - as was typical of such people, had an air of desperation about him. He was seeking his missing daughter. What put this case in Aaron's basket was that she was empowered, though at a low level. The two men met in the small office Aaron maintained in a building beside the City Hall of Haven.

"I read your letter, of course," said Aaron, after patiently hearing Mr. Farsyd's presentation. "I remember that I responded that you should seek the aid of the police or - if they won't or can't help - a talented private investigator. I specifically mentioned Michael Schmierer, since he's in your part of the country."

"Schmierer is good, and I did hire him, but he hasn't had much luck. You have connections in the US government," said the man.

"I have few with the current one. There have been two changes of administration in the two most recent elections. Even though most of those currently in power have been around long enough to remember what I have done for this country, they prefer not to. A not uncommon experience for me."

"You rescued your own grandson!"

"That was not a rescue. I was checking on him. I discovered that he had already rescued himself."

"My daughter could be in terrible danger, and nobody even knows where she is!"

"She most likely is fine. Meanwhile, there are other people whom I know have their lives at risk."

"Please..."

"No promises. I'll check, but when I have time. I'll also spread the word to watch for her. Meanwhile, I feel that Michael Schmierer is still your best hope."

* * *

"Emilie Farsyd got into an argument with her parents, grabbed a few things, stuffed them into a large gym bag and left," said Michael, over the phone, after Aaron explained why he was calling. "NameUs hasn't been any help. They have no listing for any one of that name after her departure from her parents' home. I think that she just doesn't want to be found."

In spite of his caveats, Aaron had called the detective right after Farsyd left. He could have flown there in about the same amount of time, but hadn't for several reasons. The main one being that he couldn't be certain the investigator would even be in his office without calling first. However, he was, indeed, in his office when Aaron called.

"No idea why she didn't come home after she cooled down," the detective continued, after he gave a few more details. "From what I understand this was all done in the heat of the moment."

"People often do things in the heat of the moment which they regret later," said Aaron, with a sigh. "Then, as often as not, they feel bound to stand by their decisions or actions even after they recover. Despite those regrets."

"Well, whatever regrets she may be feeling, she's covered her tracks pretty good. I'm still looking, though. I do have a few leads."

* * *

"There she is," said Michael, nodding to himself as he looked at the staff photo in the front of the catalog.

The photo print showed all the employees of a small company located not far from San Francisco. One of the women in the photo was the image of Emilie Farsyd. Whether the image actually correlated to the young woman he'd been hired to locate was something he'd soon determine.

"That was a good idea I had, of showing her picture around local businesses."

A contact at one of those - a company which used some of the products in the catalog - had found her. Or at least someone who looked a lot like her. Michael's contact had sent him a copy of the catalog, with a note. His target had barely even changed her name, now going by Emily Farside. Of course, that small change was enough to fool automatic search algorithms, such as those used by the state government.

Michael stood and reached for his coat.

* * *

Emilie/Emily had not known what to expect when called to the boss' office. She certainly hadn't expected to find a man in a trench coat waiting for her.

"I'm a private detective, Michael Schmierer," said the stranger. "Your father hired me to find you."

"What?!" said Emily, obviously startled. "No, I'm not going back! You can't make me! I'm of legal age and can leave home if I want!"

"I'm not a police officer," said Michael, spreading his hands in a placating gesture. "I can't make you do anything. However, I can tell your parents where you are. I'm going to give you time to do that yourself, though. Say, until the beginning of next week."

She looked at her boss. Whose expression was unreadable.

"Do I still have a job here?" she asked him.

"Of course. You do good work, and like you said you're old enough to decide your own path."

Emily turned back to Michael, her tone angry and firm.

"Then I'm staying. You can tell my parents that!"

She stormed out.

"I think we're done, here," said her boss, firmly.