Powers (15 page)

Eventually, other extremists with a grudge—afraid of what the Powers meant, as well—adopted their mission. The Klan, of course, and what would turn into an underground confederation known as Kaotic Chic. But the remaining arm of the Human Front—nearly eliminated following the violence of the Atlanta gang wars and the original, deadly series of Liberty murders—decided to reinvent itself. As the world marched away from revolution and rage, it donned suit and tie in order to reassert itself in boardrooms across the nation. So, too, did Malachi Crane. He redesigned the Front's sigil—the fist, snake, and bullets—into a slick corporate logo, polishing the edges and retaining the fist. He put his people to work drafting petitions, influencing legislation, and organizing in communities—a quieter form of infiltration, possibly even deadlier than the first. But the Front, now encompassing four of six floors at 500 Fialkov Way, wasn't breaking any laws. Not any laws that Deena could see. No laws at all, save perhaps the law of looking way too much like a rotting, leering root vegetable.

Crane returned to his desk, placing both palms on the blotter as he eased into his chair. “Detective … Pilgrim, was it? I assure you, if I had information that might help your investigation, I would provide it. The Human Front is long known for peacefully cooperating with recognized authorities such as the Powers Homicide Bureau.” He grinned, his face pulling into a horrible, creased rictus. “A fact your … father? Yes. Waldo, no doubt, would be able to corroborate.”

Fuck you, pumpkin
. Deena's face felt hot, and she had to force herself to grip her chair. Kirk gave her a brief, quizzical sidelong glance, which she ignored. Crane had said that to get a rise—his history and knowledge of Deena's own made her vulnerable here, a fact she'd kept from Kirk.

“Even still, Mr. Crane—”

“Please,” he responded in an indulgent manner. “Call me Malachi.”

“Mr. Crane, your association and enmity with Joseph Monroe is, of course, a matter of public record.”

He nodded, eyes watering and cast downward, coupled with a sorrowful frown. “Indeed. I was sorry to hear of his passing.”

“Were you?”

“Of course. Despite our … cultural differences, the Soldier was a hero. He battled the Nazis, held off the Viet Cong, saved us from the threat of countless alien invaders. How could I not respect the man's accomplishments?”

“Because one of those accomplishments was tossing you in jail.”

Crane's lips thinned. “Yes, the Soldier and I oft found ourselves on opposite ends of the battlefield … but you must understand, Detective, that we were political warriors. And in any war, though you may fiercely admire your enemy, he is an enemy still.”

“Enemy enough to frame and kill him?”

Crane frowned again. “That I did not do. Did I want the Soldier and his kind—enhanced and undisciplined—neutered in some manner? Did I want them restrained from running rampant across the globe?” Crane stood up, voice rising in pitch. He spread both hands out across the desk, looming over Deena and Kirk like a bird of prey.

“Did I wish them,” he continued, “to abandon their oppression of we true humans, those armed only with the gifts that God gave us? You're damn right. And as a soldier for true humanity, did I attempt to subdue, maim, kill, and destroy the Citizen Soldier and his friends on the field of battle to ensure that happened? Yes, I did.”

He turned to the window again, cracking his knuckles, wiping spittle from his rumpled face with the back of his hand. “But if you're asking whether or not I tied him to a chair and beat the shit out of him? No. That I did not do. What would be the point?”

Deena pushed her cell phone across the desk. The crime scene photos were open as a slideshow. She paged through them, displaying the Soldier's corpse to his greatest enemy, taking care to pause at images that highlighted the Front tattoos.

“And these?” she asked Crane, tapping against Monroe's veiny, bloodied arm. “Who might have something to gain by framing Joseph Monroe? Someone who may have marked him with your logo and colors?”

Crane cast an amused glance at Deena's phone. He chuckled again, an awful sound echoing from the base of his throat. “Why, Detective Pilgrim … whatever makes you think that it wasn't Joseph himself?”

“So you're confirming he was a traitor? That Monroe was a member of the Human Front?”

“I never said that.”

“You just implied—”

“No, my dear. I played devil's advocate to your inference. I will not comment one way or the other as to Mr. Monroe's involvement with our organization, not yet, but…” Crane drifted toward the door. He pointed a finger at Deena, beckoning for her to follow. She got to her feet and gathered her phone and partner and then headed after Crane.

“I will tell you
this
. The past holds more secrets then we dare know. It reveals truths and … liberties.”

Her eyes widened at the mention of the word, staring into the bigot's own. He smiled, the cracks on his face splintering into a spider's web of creases and divots. She'd reached him now, and Crane held out his hand to shake Deena's. When she ignored it, he used it to open the office door.

“You want the truth regarding Joseph Monroe? I suggest you revisit the sins of the past, Detective Pilgrim. Both his and yours.”

She glared at him. “And if I suggest you're facing obstruction charges by not telling me the truth, here and now? The truth regarding Monroe's death and, if I understand your passive-aggressive bullshit, possibly the related Liberty killings?”

Crane smiled and held out his wrists. “Then I would suggest, in return, that you arrest me, charge me, or speak to my attorney when you have some form of legal documentation. Until then, enjoy your day, Detectives.”

Deena headed out of the office and stopped, placing a hand on the doorframe and turning back. “One last thing, Mr. Crane. Can you tell me anything about the Rammler Brothers or the whereabouts of Wilhelmina Quince, also known as Willie Wails?”

Crane smiled again, this time with none of the usual charm. “I'm sure I cannot. Any information I have on the Rammlers is classified. Should you desire I share it, I suggest you produce the aforementioned documentation urging me to do so. As to Ms. Quince, I haven't had the pleasure of her company for quite some time. If I had to venture a guess? Wherever the bottom-feeders of this world bide their time until death.” He closed the door to suite 4A, shutting them out. “Good day to you both.”

Shivering on the street, Deena fumed while Kirk allowed her to calm down. They stood on the top steps of the office building, shuffling in the snow, eyes darting to the scarved, burly security guards flanking the doorway. “Goddammit,” Deena seethed. “I let him get my goat. Stupid move.”

“Detective,” Kirk answered forgivingly, “you're only human.”

She pointed five flights up. “That's just it. Not to that guy. I had powers; so did Walker. So did Monroe. That rutabaga up there—”

“Pumpkin, you mean.”

She'd made clear her impressions to Kirk on their way down the elevator. She appreciated his playing along and rewarded him with a smile.

“Thanks,
pumpkin
up there sees us as less than human—which, I gotta be honest, is fucking
ironic
. Even still, no way he sticks his wrinkly neck out to sacrifice someone with a snake-and-bullet tattoo. Even if said sacrifice might be the victim himself.”

Kirk blew warm air into his hands. “Look, it's no big deal. We just focus on Wails and move to the next name on the list … something will turn up.”

She closed her eyes and hugged herself.
That's what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid of what
will
turn up, new fish. Fuck Crane. Rubbing my nose in history best left bottled. Why the shit did he bring up my dad, of all people?
Deena's head was all turned around. She hadn't had a minute to think since walking into Monroe's apartment early that morning. And now the only things she
could
think about were Crane's parting words, Aaron Boucher's eyes, the Liberty murders old and new, and of course, her goddamn father.

“I'm gonna be useless for a while,” she explained to the baby. “Need a breather, okay? Can you go back and work Wails's whereabouts, as well as the guitar string angle? See if Walker turned up any leads. Avoid the media circus and Captain Cross. I'll owe you a Coke.”

“Uh, sure. I can't tell if you're serious. There's a clock on this, remember?”

She clasped his shoulder. “How could I forget? I am serious, and I may have another angle on this, but it's rife with personal attachments. I promise to fill you in over the Coke, maybe a taco or four. Let me work it on my own, okay?”

He eyed the hand on his shoulder, color rising to his cheeks. He agreed, happy to help. “This have anything to do with what Crane said up there?”

Glumly, she nodded in confirmation. “Everything.”

An hour and a half later, Deena sat down to dinner in Judge Kenneth Boucher's spacious eat-in kitchen on the corner of Delsante and Lee. A third-floor walkup adjacent to a lovely park, the judge's apartment was filled with mementos that enveloped usually wary Deena in a welcome, nostalgic hug. Near retired, somewhat shrunken with age, Ken had lost none of the twinkle in his eyes … though they now peered from behind glasses twice the thickness to which she'd once been accustomed. Aaron, working tieless in shirtsleeves, hovered at the stainless steel range, putting final touches on a dinner consisting of two-alarm chili (laden with short ribs, three kinds of pepper, and two types of bean), honeyed corn bread, sautéed zucchini, and a mango-strawberry salad. The judge was thrilled to see Deena after so long, though his exuberance was somewhat tempered by the news about the resurfaced Liberty killer and annoyance at having been left in the dark as to her presence in the city.

“Mighty sore I'm
just
finding out you're in town.” He took her hand in his own, beaming with happiness for having caught up with an old friend.

“I'm in the book.”

Aaron grinned over his shoulder, never pausing in his stirring. “Pop can barely
read
the book these days, though he hasn't lost his knack for throwing it at criminals.”

The judge raised a hand in dismissal. “Hush, Special Investigator. If that chili's anything less than two-alarm, you're sending out for curry.”

Aaron laughed and finished up and then carried the food to the table. They dug in, and Deena felt herself relaxing—not only due to the comfort food but also by easing into the old, familiar intimacy she'd always enjoyed at the Bouchers' table. She rarely felt at ease these days—always looking for the next tragedy, more often than not wallowing in the pain of her past. But spending an hour catching up on small talk, feeling the years fold back, helped strip away the bullshit … and despite herself, Deena set the day's horrible events aside. She ignored her pressing case, the four murders, and Walker's sidelining to toast Aaron's mother and then Deena's own. The Bouchers listened to her few humorous case stories and then related their experiences keeping the peace in Texas. Finally, to Aaron's chagrin, the judge reminisced about the various states of undress in which he'd caught them over the years.

“Deena, you recall the time I caught you sneaking out the side door at 3:00
A.M.
, clutching a shirt and wearing nothing but shorts and a smile?”

She cocked her head and leaned on her elbow. “So retirement, huh?”

“From public service, yes; not from embarrassing my son.”

“Okay, Pop.” Aaron stood to clear the table. “Time for bed.”

“How d'you like that?” the judge said, turning conspiratorially to Deena. “He lives in my spare bedroom, and I'm the one with a bedtime.”

Deena quaffed a swallow of beer and then wiped her mouth. “Well, once you venture into nekkid territory, all bets are off.”

“Perhaps so,” the judge returned, negotiating an escape from the table. He pushed himself to his feet, a bit more shakily than Deena would have liked. “It's been a pleasure. I hope we'll see you soon for more small talk and gleeful humiliation.”

She patted his hand. “Get some rest. Still wanna hear more about your travels along the panhandle.”

The judge grimaced. “That topic makes me sad, much like our time in Atlanta. Much like these killings. Too much bad road, not enough happy recollections.” Aaron stacked the tiny dishwasher, plates and glasses clinking in the background. “Seems to me you've got enough sadness to bear as it is. Best to hold on to the good memories, especially when dealing with trials and tribulation of another's making. You've a challenge on your hands, Detective. A national tragedy. A steadfast fanatic. Murders most foul, rearing their ugly head once more. You need to catch this man—or men—not just for yourself but for every poor soul who lost his or her life back in Georgia.”

He stole a glance at his son, busy at the sink, head down and focused on the dishes. Then he leaned down and kissed Deena on the forehead—a soft, moist peck that felt comforting and protective at the same time. “But don't do it alone. You have friends. And possibly more, so be forgiving if you can.” Ken's gaze slipped past Deena's eyes, off into some unknown horizon. He might have been thinking of Eveline, because his eyes watered, tears slipping to his cheeks. “Lost loves don't show up out of the blue, Deena. Some are never meant to be. Others take work. But sometimes the work might surprise you. Now good night. I'll leave you youngsters to your sleuthing and such.”

“Night,” Deena returned in kind.

The judge tottered off and down the hall, shuffling into the farthest bedroom. He closed the door behind him. Aaron finished with the dishes and, absently toweling his hands, turned back to the table. Deena stood up and grabbed the empties, set to carry them to the trash. He stepped between Deena and her destination, placing the towel aside and removing the bottles from her grip. He trashed them and then took her hands in his own.