Chapter 36: Shadows in New York
Matt left Lincoln's apartment without a word, cane tapping against the pavement as he slipped into the night. At the corner of the block, he ducked into a public phone booth.
Calmly, he dialed the police and reported the crime, giving only what was necessary. Then, without waiting for questions, he hung up. The last thing he needed was to explain why a blind lawyer happened to be at the crime scene before the cops.
He tugged off his coat as he moved, the sound of sirens echoing faintly in the distance. Beneath the heavy fabric gleamed the crimson suit—the true face of Daredevil. Tonight wasn't for lawyers. Tonight was for the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
…
Minutes later, police swarmed the building.
Yellow tape cordoned off the hall, flashbulbs lit the apartment, and officers moved briskly around Lincoln's body.
The forensic doctor knelt beside the corpse, shaking his head in disbelief. "Single shot, straight between the eyebrows. Perfect kill shot." His voice carried without him realizing, and a nearby officer froze.
The name on her badge read Jill Valentine.
Something about the wound gnawed at her memory. She crouched, staring at the precise hole in Lincoln's forehead. Cold déjà vu crawled down her spine.
Three years ago. Her first big bust in Italy. A warehouse lit with gunfire. Twenty armed men. And one shooter.
She remembered the way bodies dropped with surgical precision. One bullet. One headshot. Over and over, until silence fell.
The style here was identical.
But that was impossible.
"Tommy Vercetti…" she whispered under her breath.
By Italian law, Vercetti should still be under parole, bound to his home country. He couldn't possibly be in New York. Could he?
Her instincts screamed otherwise. She reached for her phone, hesitating only for a moment before dialing an old, trusted number.
"Hank?"
…
In Italy, a gruff voice answered groggily. Hank had been retired for three years, and he wasn't happy to be woken before dawn. But when Jill explained what she'd seen—the shot, the precision, the impossible coincidence—his irritation drained.
His voice turned grim.
"You're asking if Vercetti's still in Italy," Hank said slowly. "That's… complicated."
At first, he refused outright. Retirement meant leaving behind the mess of Mafia cases and corruption. But Jill pressed, her voice edged with urgency. Reluctantly, Hank gave in. "I'll look into it. But it'll take time. Don't expect answers tonight."
Jill thanked him, relief in her tone, before hanging up.
But Hank didn't return to bed. Instead, he sat in the dark for a long while, staring at the phone. Then, he picked it up again and dialed a different number.
"Ken Rosenberg? You'll want to hear this."
…
On the other end, Ken listened calmly as Hank relayed everything—Jill's suspicions, the case in New York, the possible link to Tommy. When Hank finished, Ken chuckled.
"Relax," he said smoothly. "The family planned this from the start. We put Tommy on a plane because we've covered every angle. The parole board? Deceived. The courts? Paid off. And as for anyone digging deeper…"
Ken's tone grew colder.
"In a few days, the body double dies in a convenient accident. Headlines will say Tommy Vercetti is dead. The Italians will mourn, the Americans won't care, and the real Tommy will be free to do as he pleases. Forever."
Hank didn't reply immediately. When he finally did, his voice was flat. "So it's true then. He's in New York."
Ken smiled faintly, though Hank couldn't see it.
"In capitalist countries, my old friend, money makes miracles. If men in their eighties can buy presidencies, why shouldn't a man like Tommy buy himself a new life?"
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