POOLE SLUMPED BACK into one of his leather guest chairs, trembling. His face was returning to its usual doughy pallor, but sweat still beaded his forehead. He reached for his pocket square and dabbed at the droplets. He was panting, trying to catch his breath.
In front of him stood Lamont and Maddy, fully visible again. Margo was leaning against the desk, her arms folded. Poole’s head swiveled from Lamont to Maddy and back again.
“How did you…?” he said, his voice thin and reedy. “I didn’t see…”
“Ever hear of the Shadow?” asked Maddy.
Poole looked confused.
“The Shadow?” he repeated. “Is that…a magic trick? Some kind of illusion? Is that what just happened? Was I really just sitting here the whole time?”
“The Shadow was a crimefighter,” said Maddy. “He fought evil in the city back in the 1930s.”
Poole spun through his mental trivia bank. Crime-fighter. Evil. Big City.
“You mean like…Batman?” he asked.
Lamont looked puzzled.
“Who’s Batman?”
“Batman,” repeated Poole, digging deep into cultural memory. “I think he had some kind of double identity. A rich playboy. He had a mansion. And he came out at night to fight bad guys. Like a bat.”
“Goddamned copycat!” said Lamont.
“Not nearly as mysterious as the Shadow,” said Maddy.
“Thank you,” said Lamont.
Poole wasn’t following any of this. What were these two nutcases talking about? Who cared about a couple of made-up superheroes from the last century?
“Batman was a comic-book character,” said Poole. “Not an actual person. He wasn’t…he wasn’t real.”
“Well, the Shadow was,” said Lamont. He leaned in close to Poole’s face. “The Shadow is.”
“Oh,” said Poole, pressing back into his chair. “I see.” He decided it was best to play along. He looked at Lamont. He blinked nervously. “You mean…you’re the Shadow?”
“Correct,” said Lamont.
Early in his law practice, Poole had deposed a number of defendants with mental issues. He had learned that the best thing was to remain calm and humor their delusions.
“Well,” said Poole, sticking his sweaty pocket square back in his pocket, “that must be fascinating.”
“The files?” asked Maddy. “That’s why we’re here.”
“As I told you,” said Poole, “I have no idea what’s in that cabinet. It came with the office. I don’t have any clue where the key might be.”
“Well then,” said Margo. “Why don’t we look?” She moved around to the back of Poole’s desk and opened one drawer after another, peeking in, running her hands through the contents. She pulled out the wide top drawer and dumped everything onto the desktop—pens, cigars, paper scraps, pencil shavings, business cards. But no key.
“That cabinet hasn’t been opened in decades,” said Poole. “If I had a hammer and screwdriver, maybe we could…”
“Hold on,” said Maddy. “I almost forgot.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her scooter pin. She walked over and inserted the pin into the cabinet. She gave it an expert twist. There was a metallic clunk as the drawers released. Margo gave Maddy an admiring look.
“You’re a safecracker?”
Maddy slipped the pin back in her pocket.
“Working on it,” she said.
“Hey!” said Poole, starting to rise from his chair. “Whatever’s in there is privileged information. Confidential files. Private property.”
Margo looked at Lamont.
“Maybe Mr. Poole needs a little more air?” she said.
“Never mind,” said Poole, slumping back into the chair. “Help yourself.”
Lamont joined Maddy and Margo at the open file drawer. It had the musty smell of old paper. They started thumbing through the thick sections of manila folders. Halfway to the back, Maddy’s finger stopped at a folder with a single word on the label: “Gomes.”
“Jackpot,” she said.
Maddy opened the Gomes file on the desk and spread out the contents—some loose papers, some stapled together. The various headings were all very official-looking: “Power of Attorney,” “Irrevocable Trust,” “Legal Guardianship.” But there was one thing all the documents had in common.
Every line of legal text had been completely blacked out.