Powers (28 page)

Deena stared at Waldo, scrabbling for morphine, anxiously waiting for her reaction. She bit her lip and turned to the chair, reaching for her coat. She removed her phone from an inner pocket and swiped until she found a recorder app. Tapping a large, red button, Deena sat back down on the edge of the bed.

“You want to know what to say? Say what you said before. Say it all—everything that you claim is true about Monroe, Aaron, the Human Front, and the judge. Especially everything you claim is true about you. Tell it all. This time, however,” Deena Pilgrim said, holding the cell phone out to her recuperating father, “I want you to say it into
this
.”

 

20

December. Tuesday night. 8:12
P.M.

Walker held out his badge and gun, testing their weight. The captain's office was mercifully quiet, noise from the bullpen having lessened to a dull roar. Emile Cross sat across from Walker, trying to meet his eyes. But Walker simply stared at the badge, gripped by an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu.

We've both been here before,
he thought.
This isn't the first time; it won't be the last.
He palmed the badge and placed it on the desk, following suit with his sidearm.

Cross swept them into a drawer, closing it with a bit more force than necessary. The captain sat back, rubbed his eyes, and then steepled his fingers against his chest. “Again, I'm sorry about this,” Cross apologized. He anxiously glanced at the third man in the office. After a moment, he turned back to Walker. “You understand why we have to do this, right? This isn't personal, or—”

“I know.” Walker avoided looking at either man—neither Cross nor Aaron Boucher, freshly returned from Georgia. Boucher, to his credit, wasn't sporting a triumphant smirk. He didn't seem thrilled about what had just transpired. The special investigator slumped against the wall, ass on a cabinet, hair lightly mussed and sporting bags beneath both eyes. Boucher had already revealed that he'd left Deena in Atlanta the moment Crane's statement had gone national. Walker's partner, handling a shit storm of a case, had been waylaid by a horrible family emergency—her father had been poisoned in his home; another modern Liberty special, but this time in the killer's original stomping grounds. A fresh coat of shame washed across Walker's face. Deena had left—or had tried to leave—several messages on his cell phone since they'd parted the evening before. Blistered by her vicious (though well-deserved) tongue-lashing, Walker hadn't exactly felt like answering. But now he wondered whether she'd been calling for backup or emotional support, reaching out to her partner for a shoulder to cry on or simply because she needed help with the case.

He wanted to dig out his phone and check. He wanted to pack a bag and go. But first, Walker had to finish this ridiculous charade. “Are we done?” he ventured, rising from his seat without waiting for confirmation.

“Walker,” Boucher explained in apologetic, placating tones. “You have to know this didn't come from me. I've been so sidetracked on this case, with Deena, and really didn't have sufficient testimony to—”

“I know. I said it's fine.”

“I
mean
it, dammit. And this is
strictly
temporary, I swear … well, I hope. I'm damn well gonna push for that.”

Walker shot Boucher a short, sharp smile. “I get it. There was always a chance it would go down this way. Frankly, I'm hardly surprised.” Boucher had been twiddling his thumbs in coach, racing home from Atlanta via US Airways at thirty-five thousand feet, when the order had apparently come in from his mysterious commission. In the face of Crane's exposé, specifically because of allegations against Joseph Monroe and possible un-American activities and associations, Boucher's superiors had decided to pull the trigger. All law enforcement officials with a history of powers—active or dormant—would be immediately stripped of legal authority. Across the nation, good men and women were being forced to submit shields to their superiors much the way Walker had been forced to relinquish his own. Joe had access to the highest echelons of government. Now a different set of men and women—frantic and scrambling to curtail any public relations damage—raced to minimize threats to national security on both domestic and international fronts. Walker didn't give a shit. He couldn't deal with another personal disappointment. His heart had been swept into that drawer along with his badge and gun. Only his heart, of course: Walker believed his soul had been already been swept away the moment he'd first excused the questionable actions of Joseph Monroe.

Crane's revelation—the confirmation that Joe had worked with the THF for all those years—felt like a knife to the balls. He'd trusted Joe, broken bread and hoisted beers with the man. They'd stood toe-to-toe against the forces of evil, and Walker had considered Monroe a friend, despite the apathetic behavior and faulty ethics he'd displayed in Detroit and again in Atlanta. But oh, how it made sense now. How the mighty had fallen … and when Goliath fell, a giant of that stature and magnitude, you could be damn sure tremors would follow in his wake.

That doesn't matter,
Walker reminded himself.
What matters is getting to Deena. Getting to Atlanta.
He clasped the captain on the shoulder and headed for the door. Boucher trailed along, still stammering apologies, but Walker didn't want to hear them. The last thing he needed was to get sidetracked by more bullshit. He headed for his desk to grab his jacket and tried Deena along the way. The cell phone put him into voice mail.
I deserve that, too,
he thought while jamming his phone into a back pocket. He would listen to her messages on the way to the airport, right after he booked a flight. Boucher was still attached to Walker's hip, offering inane platitudes. The former Power rolled his eyes and snaked his jacket from a desk he wasn't sure he'd ever see again.

“Christian?” He turned to find Enki Sunrise striding across the aisle, carrying a tablet and a steaming cup of coffee. She wore little more than a T-shirt and jeans, despite the frigid weather, and raised her eyebrows with concern. “Happy holidays, dude. You okay? Tried to raise you coupla hours ago, bring you back in on that exploding truck.”

“Thanks for handling that, Enki. I appreciate it.”

She glanced at his jacket. “Going somewhere?”

Boucher piped up. “He's going to Atlanta.”

“What the hell is in Atlanta?” She checked out the special investigator, a virtual stranger to someone who'd been away from the precinct for twenty-four hours. “And who the fuck is this? I go on one little drug stakeout and someone switches all the cops.”

Walker shouldered into his jacket and moved for the door. “Detective Enki Sunrise, Special Investigator Aaron Boucher. Boucher, Enki. She's one of the best, and he's Deena's ex. Oh! And also the guy that took my badge. He's like the Grinch who stole law and order.”

“Wait. Took your what, now?”

“Hey,” Boucher interrupted, “that's not fair. Look, Walker, going to Atlanta is a terrible idea. Right now, Deena—”

That was too much. He'd tolerated the yammering and frigid détente he and Boucher had mutually obeyed … but now he'd reached the limit. Walker rounded on the smaller detective, fists clenched around his keys. The hubbub of the precinct faded away as the tension of the last twenty-four hours—discovering Joe's body, getting sidelined by bureaucrats, fighting with Deena, and getting shit on by Crane—all came roaring at Walker like a freight train. Thousands of years, a lifetime of patience and passages, and even still a pissant like Aaron Boucher could manage to get on his nerves. Everything—the anger, the guilt, the overwhelming shame and humiliation—came burning through Walker's chest and into a single finger: just one, an index finger that he used to poke Boucher in the chest.

“Deena
what
? You tell me, Boucher.
Tell me
she doesn't need me. Because, look!” Christian fairly shouted, holding out his phone. “See, she's been calling. So I
know
she wants to talk, despite everything that went down between us. Now, I don't know what happened between
you
in Atlanta, but don't fucking stand there and tell me it's a terrible idea. When it comes to saving my partner,
no
idea is terrible. No fight or distance is too impossible to overcome. So
tell me again,
” he repeated, jabbing his finger into Boucher's shoulder. “Deena fucking
what
?”

Boucher batted Walker's finger aside. “I'm just saying, leave her alone for a minute. Waldo almost died, and yeah, things didn't end well between us. We come down on her with caseloads and evidence and our own insecurities and feelings—even if it means solving other people's murders, murders possibly connected to the attack on her father—it's just gonna break her.”

Walker smirked. “Boy, you don't know her at all. This could never break her.”

“Oh, yeah,” Boucher posed, ignoring the circle of gawkers that had drifted over to bear witness to the confrontation. “Do
you
know her? Dude, you don't know anything about her—or about me. The things Deena told me—about the job, the way she's been feeling…… did
you
know she was ready to quit? That she wants out?”

Walker bit his lip and glared at the special investigator. Enki took the brief silence as a moment of opportunity to step between them. “Fellas, I don't know what's going on, but—”

Boucher barely cast his eyes her way. “Stay out of this, Detective. Look, Walker. I know you carry a grudge against me, but I'll be blunt: I don't know why. I'm not your enemy—
you
are. All I did was come to do a job.”

“I don't care about that.”

“What
do
you care about?”

Walker leaned forward. “I care about Deena, which is more than I can say about you. Otherwise, you would have stayed in Atlanta. You wouldn't have raced back, even at the beck and call of your master's voice. That's what a partner does—or a friend. He stays, even when the going gets tough—I know that now. That's what you do.”

“And I didn't? She basically forced me to leave.”

Walker laughed. “This time, maybe.”

“What the fuck does
that
mean?” It was getting heated now, and Enki glanced in the direction of Cross's office, searching for backup. A crowd had formed, encircling the desk. Even the perps waiting to be booked had stopped to listen, waiting for Walker's reply. Boucher stepped closer, nose to chin with the larger detective.

“It means I know more than you think. For instance, I know that Waldo Pilgrim brought you into the APHD.”

“So? He was friends with my father. A family favor for a promising young cop.”

“He was friends with Monroe, too. See, I knew that even
without
having to dig through files. Remember: I was
there
. Sure, I had little to do with Waldo, but the Soldier and I were ‘thick as thieves,' remember? In fact, I was at his goddamn
birthday party
. But you wouldn't know that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you were at a different party that night, out in Tuxedo Park.”

Boucher thought back for a moment, the audience of cops and criminals hanging on every word. “You're talking about Thanksgiving. That one at the Pilgrims'.”

Walker nodded. “The very one … when you scolded the cops and Powers, claiming you were the only honest law dog in town. Here's the thing, Aaron: You were there
why
? To berate a bunch of crooked cops and terrible heroes? While criminals were burning down the city? No, you were there to pick up your father.”

“What? Yeah, I took my parents home. So wha—”

“You knew the judge was in danger that night. Why? Sure, there was a war, and he'd put some of the combatants away … but that wasn't it. What else happened that night? You remember.”

Boucher set his mouth into a determined line. His hands were at his side now, balled into fists. “A Liberty killing.”

“That's right. And everyone in Atlanta knows now, thanks to the press, that most of the Liberty killings were undertaken on behalf of Waldo Pilgrim. But what they don't know—what isn't exactly public knowledge—is that many of Pilgrim's contract killers were Powers and bigots that the judge himself had put away. Yet here they were—back on the street.”

The crowd murmured now. Enki had abandoned them, having gone to retrieve Cross. Walker didn't care; he'd be done by the time they returned. “More importantly … the victim that night was one of the criminals the judge had
not
put away—one who had gone free, evading your father's justice. I can show you, if you like. I did my due diligence; that's why no one could reach me these last few hours. I've been in the files, at the library. I've been
working the case
.”

He moved in for the kill now. “So you knew the judge was in danger because a Power or Front associate he'd convicted was out killing rivals, criminals the judge had let go. And you knew that the judge might be next—one can never anticipate the whims of a jealous felon. You knew Waldo and the others were releasing killers onto the street. This was before the hearing, before it all came out. Before Pilgrim and his pals were drummed out of the APHD.”

Walker edged closer, sneering at Boucher. “But
that's
not why I have beef—though, to be honest, it's enough to make your life extremely difficult should I inform the right people. Your commission, perhaps. Taking my badge, coming after me with everything you've got—that's fine, too. Here's the reason I really hate you, Boucher. Why I said the other day it would never work between us, because there was too much history.”