Powers (11 page)

“'Credible'?” Deena snorted. “And I saw Hoffa ordering a latte last week.”

“Did you?” Boucher asked, lowering the volume on the video as Deena manhandled the steering wheel. “Because we've been looking for him.”

Deena scoffed. “Press Play.”

“Music instead? Turn the radio to P-Rock, because Alison Nightbird just released a new sing—”

“I said Play!”

He grinned and raised the volume.
Powers That Be,
the incredibly popular opinion newscast, continued streaming on the tablet, Collette McDaniels reporting.

“Joseph Monroe, a name our audience may be unfamiliar with. But for over seventy years, Monroe lived a heroic double life: this patriot battled evil with nothing more than fists and shield. Yes, PTB Nation. Joseph Monroe—decorated military man, pillar of his community—was the Citizen Soldier. And now he is gone. And with him our hopes and prayers.”

“Seriously? What's this ‘pillar of his community' crap?” Deena slammed the horn, squawking at traffic as she vented to her passengers. “The guy lived in a roach motel, just him and leftover pizza. The community didn't even know he was there.”

“Deena…” Walker placed a calming hand on his partner's shoulder, attempting to soothe her nerves from the backseat. Boucher and Kirk appreciated the gesture; they hoped it would ensure they made it back to the precinct in one piece.

Deena threw up her hands in disgust. “Damn! Fine. Whatever.”

“Our sources—”

“You mean ‘Twitter'!” She seethed and drove. “Keep going.”

“—have learned that the Soldier's body, smuggled from an unknown location, has yet to be identified by family members or recognized by government officials. Tate may still be investigating the circumstances behind Monroe's death, but this reporter can't help but grimace at the rotten taste in her mouth—”

“Ha! No … too easy.”

“—placed there due to unnecessary delay in laying the great man's remains in state. What are police and both federal channels and the Powers community attempting to hide? Have unsavory facts been baked into Monroe's untimely demise? The man, a veteran of countless conflicts, engendered several enemies in his lifetime.
Powers That Be
hoped, however, that Commissioner Tate, Captain Emile Cross, and Homicide Detective Christian Walker would not be counted among their number—”

Deena pounded both hands against the wheel. “Shut it off. Shut it. Oh, that
bitch
.”

Walker leaned back and stared out the window, scanning the snow-covered landscape as it quickly sped by. “Nothing we haven't heard before.”

“Don't worry, Deena,” Boucher coolly replied, handing the tablet back to Kirk. “I'll apply leverage to McDaniels. Hush things up.”

“It isn't that. I just can't … oh, come on. What fresh hell is
this
now?” Deena peered over the dashboard as she pulled the SUV into the precinct parking lot. A thick, angry crowd had gathered in front of the building, comprised of chanting, picketing civilians and costumed children. The adults, hidden beneath coats and scarves, stomped about in the snow, hoisting placards on which they'd scrawled an equal number of messages both supporting and condemning the Citizen Soldier. The kids gawked and cried, dragged along by the hand and held up to news cameras lining the sidewalk. The usual religious nuts were in attendance, as were local and national news along with a stalwart group of policemen, barricading the steps and doing their best to maintain crowd control. Reporters belted questions at passersby while a handful of men and women, dressed in hats emblazoned with the Soldier's eagle sigil, wept and carried on with abandon. Deena quickly steered the SUV into the garage and was waved through by a warmly dressed, mildly annoyed beat cop who was being peppered with insults by the gathered mob.

They sidestepped Central Booking and entered the hot, crowded precinct. Someone had removed the Christmas tree, possibly into a back room—the bullpen was too crowded, and they needed the space. Walker and Pilgrim beelined for the captain's office while Aaron excused himself to hunt down media relations. Kirk stumbled after the partners, fumbling with the tablet and wiping sweat from his eyes. As he departed, Aaron deftly lifted the mobile device from Kirk's hands, ensuring that the rookie wouldn't get bumped, drop the tablet, and have it shatter into millions of pieces. That easily could have happened; the bullpen was packed—strangled by not only cops and perps but also attorneys and politicians descended from on high to deal with the details surrounding the public relations nightmare. Deena ignored them; they were a distraction, and there was a case to solve.

Walker's lucky,
she thought.
I should recuse myself, too. Claim emotional distress due to the reappearance of the Liberty killer. Make up a bit of bullshit and hole up somewhere quiet and dark, lined with dusty bottles and inappropriate choices. I should get out now. My heart's not in it. With Aaron here, to be honest, I wouldn't trust my heart even if it were. I should tell the captain I'm walking. I should tell him today.

Kirk sneezed behind Deena, wide-eyed and gawking at the district attorney, who was quietly arguing with Aaron in a corner, vehemently gesticulating to the crowd outside. The rookie caught Deena staring and, red-faced, scampered to his desk.

Dammit,
she realized.
If I walk, they'll just give it to the baby. I can't subject him to that.
Deena Pilgrim was in—again—like it or not. But she planned to have a frank discussion with Cross once they wrapped it up. A well-earned vacation. Right after she had a
franker
discussion with the ex-boyfriend who'd shown up from out of the blue. Whatever the case, between the details of the murders, Aaron's reappearance, and the blanket of conversation permeating the cop house, Deena Pilgrim was distracted.

Which, unfortunately, left her vulnerable.

Somebody tugged the back of her collar, hard enough that the zipper of her jacket dug deeply into her throat. She lost her footing, but whoever it was dragged her up and held her close. A guy, by the smell and breathing, possibly two weeks without a shower. He was wiry but strong, sporting a musty jacket and a thick brush of beard. His left arm locked around Deena's neck, crushing it as he raised his right hand before her eyes. She twisted, attempting to free herself, but the filthy man matched her step for step, adjusting his stance to ensure that she couldn't kick or grab a delicate spot.

The room reacted. Several cops drew on Deena's attacker, barking angry warnings as they steadied their aim. The lawyers, stricken with silence, disappeared into offices or plastered themselves against the wall. Hookers and thieves, waiting to be arraigned, hooted and cackled. They cheered for the unnamed man at Deena's back. Walker held out a hand, no doubt locking eyes with whoever it was behind Deena. She couldn't make out Walker's words; the only sound reaching her ears was a rushing wind—adrenaline washing through her body. Then a metered tick—like from a clock—the filthy man's irregular breathing, and Deena's own pounding heartbeat.

Finally, like water through an unstopped drain, the noise rushed back in.

“Get down!” two of the officers shouted. “Put her down and step away!”

“It's all right.” That was Walker, using measured tones to calm her assailant. “We're here to listen,” he reasoned with the stinky wall of flesh against which Deena was pressed. “Just let her go, okay? It's been a hard day for everyone. Just set her down, lower your hands, and we can talk.” Captain Cross had emerged from his office; she spied him behind Walker, along with a handful of goggle-eyed detectives and secretaries. Kirk watched from his seat. He'd frozen; they all had. No one moved to help her, and sweat began to roll down her cheeks. Why didn't Walker move or do something? If she could breathe, if she could get her hand on the guy's knees or balls this would be over in a minute. But she kept missing her targets, squirming and doing her best to break free. Deena's hands scrabbled for purchase on his arms, throat, his face, but he was smoke—her fingers passed through dry, sticky heat. Deena's heart hammered against her chest. She was losing oxygen, and everyone just
fucking stood there
.

Then the man waved the hand before her eyes, and she understood why. He clenched his fist, and the air … swirled. So did his skin, lapping like water as fire and electricity coursed into it, flowing through his veins. He pulled an electric charge out of the air, and it rippled from knuckle to knuckle until the entire hand was bathed in cold, blue flame. He turned his hand on Deena and moved it close to her temple, the open palm directed at her face. She could feel the irregular warmth and a tiny jolt of static strafed her right ear. Deena flinched, and the bearded man reasserted his grip, chest heaving as if about to sob.

“You pigs,” the intruder sputtered, his fetid breath no welcome treat. “You swine are responsible; you let him
die
. He's gone, and our enemies … they're fuckin'
every
where.” Deena locked eyes with Walker, her partner still maintaining a pose of practiced negotiation. Deena knew that if she could see through Walker's eyes, she'd be seeing a crazy person … probably dressed in some kind of Citizen Soldier shirt, hat, or jacket. She slackened her frantic attempts to escape and surreptitiously pointed an index finger at her partner.
You got this,
Deena whispered in her mind.
We took down Royale and Wolfe, so this guy's nothing. You got this, all right?

Walker took a hesitant step forward, and the Power flinched. His body shuddered, and he forced his hand closer to Deena, threatening to speed-tan half her face. “Stay back,” he warned her wary partner. The man swiveled to the right, quickly holding out his hand to the assembled policemen, and then he shoved it back at Deena. “I'll broil her, I swear. You just … you have to bring him to me, okay? Bring him back.”

Walker spread his hands, demonstrating that he presented no threat. “The Soldier? You know we can't do that. I understand your grief, man; we all knew him. This isn't the way to get him back.”

“No!” The Power grew increasingly unhinged. He pointed an unsteady finger at Walker. “No, you
didn't
know him!
I
knew him! The
people
knew him. Hunter fucking
Thompson
knew him.
You
killed him, what with your wars and badge and Facebook satellites bombarding Powers with sterilization rays.”

The bearded man sobbed. He cracked his knuckles, and the blue flames popped. “You … you were his
partner,
Diamond. You left him to die, and now what do we have? There's no … no
citizenry
. Only soldiers and Uncle Tom slave wagers like
you
.”

He brought his beard closer to Deena's cheeks, and she could
taste
the smell permeating the follicles. She couldn't take it. Walker wasn't going to move; Kirk wasn't going to move; no one was going to take a shot.
As always, I have to do it myse—

Something swung right from the agitated Power's blind spot. It shattered against the man's face and splintered into his eyes and cheeks. Stunned, he loosened his grip on Deena and jerked his right hand around, emitting a blast of fire that consumed a nearby desk. Deena swiftly shoved an elbow into her attacker's gut. He stumbled, mud-covered work boots demolishing shards of glass about his feet. The object that had saved her swung back for a return appearance, shoved into the injured Power's face by Aaron Boucher. Aaron palmed his weapon—Kirk's mobile tablet, hopefully backed up and by now completely useless—and then twisted it left and right, digging jagged shards of glass into her assailant's face. The bearded Power squealed and grabbed his wounded eyes. Deena swept his legs, knocking him to the ground. Walker rushed forward, along with a handful of cops; they swarmed the Power and clapped a set of drainer cuffs over both wrists.

Deena clutched her neck and breathed, instantly regretting it as her throat filled with razor blades. Aaron was at her side, supporting her from falling and protecting her from further harm. Several detectives hustled the Power off to a cell before Deena could get her hands on him.
Smart. I would have hurt him
. Slowly, awkwardly, the precinct released its collective breath, and everyone returned to his or her tasks after a smattering of enthusiastic, much-needed applause.

“You okay?” Aaron asked. “Did he hurt you?”

Deena coughed violently. Sinking to her knees, she rested an arm on one leg while the other massaged her throat. “Only my pride. Need a drink.” Aaron nodded and patted her shoulder. He turned and headed to the break room, searching for a glass of water. Walker stepped over, bending down to help Deena to her feet. She shooed him away, preferring to stand on her own, assuring her partner that everything was fine. Walker didn't believe her, judging by his expression. But Deena didn't care. She was fine.
Fine
. All in a day's work, right?

I'm talking to the captain
today.

“So, thanks.” Deena turned to the rookie hovering off to one side. Kirk gawked and stammered. He seemed at a loss for what to say. She clasped him on the arm, squeezing collegially. “I'm kidding. That guy would have roasted you, Baby Kabobs.”

Kirk turned beet-red. “You would have tried if it had been me … or anyone. I just stood there. I didn't do anything. You would have saved the day.”

“Doubt that's true. Don't beat yourself up.”

Kirk smiled. “That's your job.”

She weakly returned the grin.
God, I'm exhausted
. “Damn right.”

“Are you insane? Are you trying to bury me?”