Powers (18 page)

But better safe than sorry,
Deena had decided.

Though, if I find out this bitch had anything to do with these murders, she's hardly safe from me.

Deena left Quince to her noisy recuperation. She dragged a chair to the other end of the table and turned it around. Deena sat, crossed her forearms over the back of the chair, and rested her chin against her hands. Quince scrabbled at her nose, doing her best to stanch the flow of blood, crying and cursing so wetly and thickly that Deena couldn't tell where the insults ended and the pity party began.

“You done, cop-killer?” Deena asked the injured, whining singer.

Wails shot her a wounded look. She wiped away tears, smearing blood across her cheeks. She wore spattered orange—prison couture.
PROPERTY OF POWERS HOMICIDE DIVISION
offered free advertising across Quince's back … not that anyone would read it other than the guards and populace of some soon-to-be-decided prison. They had her for assault at least, maybe conspiracy. After visiting Corbin Kirk in his hospital room, Deena was ready to throw the book at Quince—index and all.

Kirk was in a bad way. Quince had pulped his face, shattering a cheekbone and denting his nose. The rookie's skull had more bumps than a maternity ward, and he'd lost two teeth. Doctors had retrieved the bullets from his side and leg, but he'd have trouble walking for a bit, breathing more so. The bullet in his rib had grazed a lung. They'd managed to repair the damage, but one thing remained certain: Kirk was off the case.

The captain had given Deena an earful. Sending Kirk out alone had been a mistake—she knew that—but who knew he'd stop for a piss, as he'd claimed to Aaron? And who knew Deena would have happened upon the killer? Now she was hearing about her fuckup by everyone from the DA on down. IA wanted a word, as did the commissioner. Every news station in town thrust microphones into her business, and a sea of mourners had barely let her pass into the station. The one person Deena
did
want to talk to was pouting at home. Though at the moment, to be honest, she honestly had no idea what she would even say to him were he around.

Fucking Walker,
she'd thought, seething at Kirk's bedside. The baby's breathing was wet and ragged, and Aaron had rubbed her shoulders as she stared at him in silence.
Walker, what does he know? Look at this kid,
she'd entreated the universe.
Did he deserve this? Why the fuck did I send him out alone? What did I have to prove? Did I think I could solve it single-handedly? In this state of mind? Between Walker and Aaron and the shit I heard from Crane … what the hell was I thinking?

And now I
have
to solve it single-handedly,
she thought, boring holes into Quince with her eyes
. Kirk's out of commission, Aaron is off reporting to a commission of his own, and Walker's useless. Meanwhile, I get the media extravaganza and am tasked to connect tab A to slot B before the clock runs out.

But all I can think about is that hood, my throat, and my fucking father.

None of which boded well for Deena's only lead, the woman across the table. Cross had balked at the detective's intentions—no way was he letting her in a room with the possible key to solving a rapidly spiraling murder case. But Deena had employed her heretofore-unused feminine wiles, along with a handful of jokes, stories, and outright deals. That had bought Deena twenty minutes in the interrogation room with Quince, and though all she wanted to do was kick the living shit out of the woman across the table, Deena knew she had to make every second count. And she didn't want to be in here any longer than she had to: the smell of pine was driving her fucking nuts. She scooted closer, letting her chair scrape against the floor with an echoing, irritating screech.

“So. Done?”

Quince nodded, a tear clinging to an eyelash and a runner of snot dripping from her mangled nose. She was truly filthy, and she rubbed her wounded leg as best she could, wincing whenever she squeezed too hard. Liberty's slug had struck bone, and though the medics had been able to retrieve the bullet (and were running tests to identify its shooter), it probably still hurt like a motherfucker.
I'll use that, if need be,
Deena realized.
Sweep the leg, Zabka-style. Nothing like a kick to a bullet wound to elicit the goddamn truth.

“You put a big hurt on my partner, you know. This precinct doesn't take kindly to cop-killers. And I definitely hate having to train fresh partners.”

Quince mumbled through her veil of tears.

“What was that?” Deena inquired, cupping a hand against her ear. “Didn't quite catch it.”

Quince snuffled and wiped her face. “Said I was sorry. Wasn't trying to kill him.”

“Coulda fooled me. And his doctor. But I'll convey the apologies to his mother.”

“What do you want me to say?” Quince spread her hands in frustration, rattling her cuffs. “Nearly died. Didn't know who I could trust. Just wanted to get away.”

“From the Liberty killer or my poor schmuck of a partner?”

The singer shot Deena a skeptical look. “What? Bitch, I don't know what you're on about. Some asshole jumped me with a knife. Hell, I don't even remember firing a gun, so I want my—”

Deena leaned forward, laying both palms on the table. “So you had no clue your attacker was the Liberty killer. I know that you know who I mean. Don't play cute.”

Quince laughed—a short, joyless burst of air. She hung her head and grinned, hair falling into her face. “Dude, Liberty? You're so reaching it isn't funny.”

“Am I? Deny you know what I'm talking about. I
dare
you.” She pounded the table, and Quince jumped.

“Jeez! Yeah, damn. I know what the Liberty killings are. I never denied that, pigbitch.”

Deena bit her lip and tamped down the hate. She felt hot; noise from the precinct filtered through the door, mingling with the static in her head.
Just keep talking. Press her about Atlanta. Don't think about Waldo or Kirk, or you'll gut this slut where she sits.

“Then how am I ‘reaching,' Willie?”

“Because that was, like, twenty years ago. Ancient history.”

“Eleven, actually. During the Atlanta gang wars.”

Quince sat back and folded her arms. “Whatever, man. I'm not a calendar.”

Deena hauled out her phone and maximized some criminal records, crime scene photos, and headlines archived from the
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
and APHD. She placed the device on the table and turned it so that Quince could see. “No, but you are a vindictive, radical, anti-Powers militant. And a whistleblower. Or at least you were, according to records, arrest reports, and court documents. You were Crane's snuggle bunny, weren't you?”

Quince sniffed again, sneering and turning away from Deena's phone. “I ain't seen Mal in years. I don't run with the Front anymore. I'm legit. I sing.”

Deena turned the phone back. “And run a little H, maybe deal molly. Part-time hooking when tips run out. That's from this station's records, mind you. And not the ones in Atlanta, dear.”

Willie massaged her leg, and Deena inched a heel closer beneath the table. Quince looked at the door. “I want a lawyer.”

“For what? I haven't charged you.”

“I know my rights.”

“Seems like a guilty move, calling a lawyer. Sure you have nothing to hide? I mean, I'm not the one who airholed a cop tonight, sweetie.”

Quince exploded, shouting across the table, “Look, I don't fucking know nothing about no goddamn Liberty murders, okay?”

“Well, now. All right. Does Crane?”

“Who—what,
fuck
. I
told
you I ain't seen him.”

“You said you knew nothing about Liberty,” Deena argued, paging through the files. “But according to these court reports, you testified against several Atlanta detectives who were accused of mishandling the Liberty killings. You said, I quote—”

Quince cut her off. “I fucking know what I said.”

Deena put the phone aside.
Dammit, Dad. And fuck you, Crane.

“So let's try again. Do you know the man who attacked you this evening? Not the man you shot—the first man, in the mask.”

Quince shook her head.

Deena continued, “Do you want to venture a guess why he was trying to kill you?”

“I have that kind of face.”

“Willie.” Deena placed her chair at the left end of the table, sitting with her back to the door and alongside Wails. “Look, the man who attacked you
was
Liberty. Not the moron cops who capitalized on his first killings, pretending to be him in order to clean up the streets.”

“I still say you're reaching, bro.”

Deena placed a hand on Quince's forearm; the singer flinched. “I know this because he attacked me, too … after I chased him down. I woke up in the hospital, after he beat me, and I was told his words had been written above my head. In my own blood.”

Wails sneered. “Copycat, like those cops. Liberty disappeared ten years ago … and he only ever killed in Atlanta. Besides, why would he want to kill a cop? He went after criminals.”

“Because I chased him down. And maybe because though I'm a homicide detective here, I used to live in Atlanta, a lifetime ago. Detective Deena Pilgrim.”

Quince's expression went slack after hearing Deena's confession, a spark of understanding flashing behind the eyes. She didn't say a word, but Deena already figured she knew the truth, so she pressed onward. “Okay, so you know my name and what I know about your past. What you
don't
know is that yours wasn't Liberty's only show today. Earlier, we discovered three bodies on a subway car, decapitated several hours ago. The last of the Rampage Brothers.”

Quince's mouth formed a letter
O
. “All … all three?”

“The hat trick. Somebody's killing Powers-haters.” Deena tapped the faded tattoo on Willie Wails's forearm. “Haters with marks like these. I need to catch them as soon as I can. Where were you two nights ago?”

“At … at the bar. I had a late set. Billy will back that up.”

“Billy's the bartender?”

She nodded, horrified. Deena sat back. “So you didn't kill the Rammlers, let's say. When was the last time you saw Crane?”

“Y-years ago. Before I got involved with Kaotic Chic. It … it didn't end well. But I doubt he would have—”

“And the Rammlers?”

“Same time. When I cut ties, I cut ties.”

Deena rapped her knuckles on the table. “Okay, let me ask you this. Did you ever meet Joseph Monroe?”

Wails squinted. “Who?”

Deena tried another tack. “Back when you ran with the Front, did you have any interaction with the hero known as the Citizen Soldier? Maybe in battle?”

“Damn,” Quince mumbled, “the Soldier? What does he … you're all over the place. No, I mean, yeah. I guess. I saw the guy once. But we never fought. I wasn't one of the strong ones. Mal, the Rammlers, Blitzkrieg. Those were the guys that handled the A-listers. I had a fucking guitar. I scared the crowd. Like I said, I haven't been involved…… I dallied with Kaotic Chic, and I believe in the cause, but stepped away to focus on music.”

“And drugs.”

“Bitch gotta eat,” she replied with a grunt.

“So, you never met him. Crane said nothing about him?”

“Nothing civil.”

“But you admit to being involved with the gang war—and I know you testified against those cops. I know you worked for them. Think this might be a revenge thing?”

Wails shrugged. “If so, why wait ten years? I'm nobody now. I sing to drunk assholes in a shitty bar. Why take revenge?”

“Maybe it's a Power out to kill known Powers-haters?”

“Yeah, but why single me out? Plenty of active Front members in the bar last night. Besides, Liberty never discriminated between Power and normal. Killed plenty of Front soldiers, plenty of Powers.”

“Could be a Power trying to rub the Front's nose in the mud.”

“Could be a lot of things. Could be Olympia back from the dead, wanting my hide because I once gave him crabs.”

Deena lifted her phone and scrolled through to the photos of the guitar strings that Kirk had found. She turned it around so Quince could see.

“Recognize these?”

Willie Wails leaned in and squinted. “That a .027?”

“How did you know?”

She sat back, cracking a grin. “Might as well ask how I know one tit's heavier than the other. Strung an old axe with them when I first got to the city. Been out of stock for years. They're tense, see, and—”

“They cause the guitar's neck to bow.”

Quince nodded, seemingly impressed. “Yeah, fam.”

“We think someone used a set to slice off the Rampage Brothers' heads.”

Quince held out her hands. “Fuck, dude. I
told
you, it wasn't me.”

Deena stowed her phone in a hip pocket. “And you don't know who else it might be? I can track sales of those strings, Willie. I can find out if you're lying—”

The former radical pounded a fist on the table. “
Hey!
I told you, I'm
out
. I got no beef with anyone no more. I sing my shitty songs and maybe sell an ounce for a hot and a cot, but I don't fucking
know
who Liberty is!”

Deena narrowed her eyes. “Could someone close to you have a set of those strings? Did you ever gift a set to Crane?”

“No. Yes. I don't know. We did a lot of crank back then.”

“Tell me about your testimony in Atlanta.”

Quince groaned and sank into her chair, looking up at the ceiling in consternation. “Jeez. It's all public fucking record.”