Powers (30 page)

He gloated into Walker's ear, laughing with a shrill, sibilant whisper. “Magnificently. Good night, Christian. I'm sure you didn't think we'd forgotten you.”

With that, the hooded man grasped a portion of the wall and tore it apart, throwing chunks of plaster against a beam that ran perpendicular to the building. A load-bearing beam, Walker recognized.

Shit,
he complained to the universe, frantically pleading for a bit more time,
I wasn't fucking serious about the whole building-falling-apart thing.

After that, all that Walker heard was the screech of shifting iron and the crumbling roar of thousands of falling, broken bricks. That, and triumphant laughter.

Then, mercifully, the enveloping rush of silence.

 

22

December. Wednesday morning. 7:10
A.M.

Deena sulked and waited in the austere, glass-enclosed suite that served as the central boardroom for the Human Front. Snow dripped from her hair and her coat, pooling on the floor and the wide, oval table that dominated the space. She glanced out across the hallway—most of the offices were still dark; business wouldn't commence for another two hours. Or maybe everyone was just away visiting family for the holidays. Still, she'd assumed the organization would be in lockdown following Malachi Crane's blatant—and, to be fair, ballsy—shot across the prow of the government and authorities he'd rebelled against for most of his life.
That's what you get when you assume,
she thought, sanity and good sense pinwheeling away with every passing moment she spent soaking in this tastefully decorated fishbowl.
You make an ass out of every shit heel you meet. Even yourself.

That isn't how it goes, is it?

Before she could elaborate to herself, Crane appeared as if from nowhere, his pumpkin head beaming with a cutaway, raggedy smile. Two bodyguards flanked the door, waiting just outside to prevent any trouble.
Smart,
she acknowledged.
Trouble's my middle name. Well, that isn't true. My middle name is Olivia, but let's just keep that to ourselves, boys.

“So,” Crane began, voice thick with oil. “Detective Pilgrim. You're back from Atlanta. Did you bring me a souvenir?”

She wasn't surprised. Deena had tried to keep her trip under the radar, but the Human Front had their claws in every city, informants in every cop house and hospital from Carlsbad to Key Biscayne. Hell, Waldo's doctor or one of the nurses—that
bitch,
the one who'd nearly gotten between her and Aaron—probably owned the private line to Crane's little kingdom. Fuck, as far as she knew, Aaron could have made the call himself. Deena didn't know who to trust anymore. But that's why she was here, dripping on the carpet of Satan's war room.

She'd boarded a plane late last night, hitting the snow-dappled tarmac again around 5:45. Deena hadn't traveled alone; she carried documents and records from Waldo's private files, carefully hidden away in a storage locker on the Atlanta piers. She also carried hours upon hours of testimony—her father's words, implicating Monroe as Liberty, suggesting that Aaron Boucher couldn't be trusted, either. First, she'd stopped at home and uploaded her recordings to the cloud. Then she'd showered and changed, her mind still a whirlwind of betrayal and insecurity, after which she'd taken a circuitous path to 500 Fialkov Way. There had been reporters still camped out front—the Media Watch never stopped—and that was the last thing Deena had wanted. She'd been keeping this under wraps, playing the cards close to her chest. Launching herself up the stairs, elbowing past PNN, Channel 7, and all the rest would only serve to catapult this very personal evidence onto the world stage. And though it would probably come to that, Deena wasn't yet ready for that yet. First, she needed confirmation. She needed Crane to corroborate Waldo's accusations and admit—on paper, on digital device, whatever—that Joseph Monroe was Liberty. That members of the Human Front were, indeed, paid off by the nation's Top Cop to subdue and murder individuals who had legally been granted their freedom in a court of law … or who hadn't been given the chance to be convicted in the first place. She needed Crane to exonerate Aaron Boucher of any involvement with the Liberty killings. She needed to know, to believe in the man she once loved. She needed to confirm that the man who had been the catalyst for her life behind a badge was truly clear of all wrongdoing … and that everything she'd heard in Atlanta was just a series of far-fetched allegations.

And so Deena had shivered on the outskirts of the media encampment, waffling between paying off a cleaning lady for entrance and simply storming up the stairs, hurrying through the crowd and into the building. Thankfully, the decision was taken out of her hands: moments after arriving on scene, Deena was approached by two of Crane's sinister aides and escorted into the offices via a side entrance.

Now here she sat, face-to-face with the embodiment of intolerance, hoping to confirm the words of a crooked cop.
What the fuck am I doing? Why not take this to Cross—or to Walker, if I even knew where the hell he is? Why am I here, talking to this demented pumpkin, depending on this hateful scarecrow to be the arbiter of truth?

“Tell me,” he began, settling in at the head of the table, “how is your father? Road to recovery and all that?”

She flinched and then decided to fuck it all. She slapped her phone down on the table and set it to Play. Waldo's voice, wheezing and addled by pain medication, drawled throughout the boardroom. The file played, and twenty minutes later, Crane reached out to shut it off. He sniffed once and then clasped his hands on the surface of the table. Crane stared at her, curious yet dismissive, waiting for Deena's opening salvo and truly looking as if he didn't give a shit if it ever came.

“Why not cooperate?” she began. “Your pals did. Quince, the Rammlers. They all took the Soldier's deal. Why not you?”

Crane's face widened to a smile, and he leaned back in the chair, holding out his hands. “My dear detective, even if this were true, I can't be held responsible for all the decisions made by poorly informed, weak-willed underlings, can I?”

“So you deny that it's true? That Monroe and my father
didn't
pay members of the Human Front to kill Powers and cover it up? Because I can show you stacks of depositions and courtroom testim—”

“Of course it's true. But a few bad apples don't represent the orchard.”

“Goddamn—look, speak like a human being, okay?” Deena leaned forward and tapped her phone. “Did you or did you not refuse an offer by Joseph Monroe to kill specific individuals in exchange for financial gain?”

“I did.”

“You … you did?” Stunned, she sat back. The room spun, and she had to grip the table to keep from falling. “Why refuse?”

“Simple,” he replied with a wave of his hand. “At the time, Joseph Monroe was my enemy. We'd clashed in Vietnam, Detroit, and several other battlefronts along the way. I'm not in the habit of abandoning my principles and getting in bed with enemies, especially for something so crass as
money
.”

“But he
wasn't
your enemy. You said it yourself: Monroe belonged to the THF. I've seen the tattoos in person.”

Crane nodded, the wattle in his neck quivering in an obscene manner. “Yes, but that was much later. After we'd incorporated.”

“Why? What changed your mind—or changed his heart?”

Crane grinned again, wrinkles cracking across aged, withered skin. “That's not for me to explain—or your shell of a father, my dear. That's someone else's story entirely.”

“And if I told you again that by withholding that name, you could be charged with obstruction of justice?”

Crane stood up, still smiling, palms down on the table. “Then I'd tell you again that with the proper documentation, you'd be well within your rights to drag me downtown and hold me in one of your depressing little interrogation rooms for twenty-four hours. To save you some time, however, let me say this: in the end, we would arrive at the same conclusion. Me, a full day short. You, lacking the evidence and name your heart desires.”

He circled the table and stared out the window, hands clasped at his back as he'd been the first time Deena had visited his office.
This guy sure likes to look out windows,
she thought, frustrated and grasping at nonexistent straws. “So you'll at least admit to the fact that Monroe, through Waldo, was releasing criminals and paying them to kill other criminals?”

He looked over his shoulder, nodding in confirmation. “I will.”

“And that he did it using Liberty's name, creating a second persona under which he and several others stalked and murdered over fifteen powered and non-powered individuals?”

“I can corroborate that Mr. Monroe was involved, yes.”

Deena raised an eyebrow, along with her voice. “'Involved'? What kind of evasive fucking statement is
that
?”

The guards, alerted by Deena's sudden increase of antagonistic volume, turned and entered the boardroom. Crane waved them away; everything was fine. “If I'm evasive, Detective Pilgrim, it is only due to my continued reticence in telling another man's story. Joseph was involved with the Liberty killings, yes.”

“Was he or was he not Liberty?”

Crane smirked and turned away, heading for the door. “Exactly that.”

What the fuck?
Deena stood up, melted snow sliding from her lap and onto the floor. “Hey, I'm not finished.”

“But I am,” he announced with an air of finality. “My offices are shortly about to open, and a phalanx of devoted staffers should be streaming from the elevators at any moment. I have answered every question I'm likely to answer, Detective, and should you require I do anything more, I suggest, for the third time, that you produce a document urging me to do so. Now, if you don't mind, please clear my boardroom and exit the premises. One of the men will show you out.”

“Yeah? And what will you do?” She snatched up the phone, stamping toward the hallway. “Stir the pot some more? Announce the exact opposite of what you've told me? You've done it before.”

Crane leered at her, flashing that blocky, pumpkin-headed smile once more. “If that's the way you choose to see it. As I said, I've explained everything I'm likely to explain. You asked what I planned to do now. I believe I'll put the coffee on before the receptionist arrives.”

Five minutes later, Deena was back on the steps, shivering in the wind. Reporters surged forward, recognizing her and peppering her with questions both piercing and inane. She ignored them, shoving her way through their ranks with a few well-placed elbows. The parking lot had filled up since she'd gone inside; the denizens of 500 Fialkov Way were arriving for the day. She wanted to question them all, but she knew if she tried, Crane would release his goon squad. Anyway, she had plenty to figure out based on their meeting. A great deal to decide before she made her next move.

Deena headed north, leaving footprints in the snow as she left her car and pointed herself in the direction of the precinct. She didn't know if that was her final destination, but she knew she didn't want anyone trailing her steps. Losing a man on foot was easier than in a car; you could go down a subway, in a doorway, onto a roof. The city was Deena's fortress, and she knew ways to assure her solitude. She glanced back. She'd picked up two tails—one across the street, another on top of the adjacent building. Deena grinned, waved, and smiled. They both disappeared, respectively hiding in a doorway and ducking out of sight. She rolled her eyes and shook her head and then jammed both hands into her pockets. She looked back again and gestured for her tails to follow. “Come on! Let's go for a five-mile walk!”

She lost them in Tyler Square amid hordes of commuters. Deena turned left down Connor Street and doubled back on Hudson. She located a small bistro—the Armenian kind, one you could only access by walking downstairs—and settled into a corner booth with a piping cup of tea and a plate of
gatah
. She watched the door, waiting for men with snake-and-bullet tattoos to come wading into the café. But no one did; she owned the place, and the proprietor, delighted to have an early morning customer with a taste for his native delicacies, offered Deena a hearty bowl of
kalagyosh
with a stack of spiced croutons. She thanked him and ate slowly, placing her jacket on the back of a chair and consuming the first true meal she'd had in nearly a day. The
kalagyosh
—a vegetable stew—warmed her belly, and the tea soothed her throat, sore from having yelled at so many people in so short a period of time.

As Deena ate her breakfast, she considered the testimony that had been presented to her since she'd left for Atlanta.
On one hand, can I believe the word of a crooked cop?—Even if he is my father, Waldo was dirty and corrupt. That's not up for debate. Everyone has read the papers and knows what happened after the gang wars came to a close.

And can I believe the corroboration by a noted, manipulative, anti-Powers fascist who may simply be trying to further smear the once-sterling reputation of a living legend … and by doing so, clear a path to do the same for anyone connected with that Power?

Or do I believe the man who once owned my heart? A man who betrayed me before, who isn't the man he was back when I fell in love. A man who inspired me to be a good cop, even if he eventually turned out to be a rat bastard.

“There's no way,” she said out loud. “No way Aaron could have done the things my father said he did. Not for those reasons.”

“Hm? Yes, yes. Coming right up,” the bistro owner responded from the kitchen, having thought that Deena was asking for more croutons.