Powers (9 page)

“But you said that the tattoos weren't new. Older, faded … Walker all but confirmed that to me.”

“True, but even if Joe subscribed to an anti-Powers agenda, that doesn't mean they had anything to do with his death.”

He eyed her as they reached the subway stairs. “But you don't believe that. You've got a hunch it's Malachi Crane and his band of goons.”

Deena shrugged again. “I follow my nose. It always knows.”

She could see commotion on the platform below—lights, stretchers, and more yellow tape. She fidgeted, feeling the moment of paradise-purgatory once again; the same thing Deena had felt before entering Joe's apartment.
Come on. My partner's down there. You're cute and all, but he needs my help.

Aaron held out a hand, placing it on her shoulder. “You all right?”

Deena tapped her finger against the bridge of her nose and grinned, ignoring the queasiness that had settled in her stomach. “Car ride caught up with my guts.”

“Do tell.”

“Later. Trying to breathe first.” Two cops headed toward them, walking up the stairs. One of them spied Deena, whispered to his partner, and then performed an about-face and hustled back down to the platform. The second kept coming, unconvincingly trying to ignore Deena and her guest as he continued toward the escalator.

“Your case,” Aaron continued. “You must have a hunch, something enough to have disturbed Walker back at the precinct. Clue me in; I can run interference with the feds, toss them a lead they can feed the media. Then we can go see what fresh hell Walker's discovered.”

“Look,” she stammered, unsure if she really wanted to mix her business with whatever she had going on with Aaron.
Why the fuck not? What harm will it do?
“We had a few leads, but only a handful seemed solid enough to pursue. Walker might think otherwise—”

“Walker's off the case.”

“Plus there's that, so I'm second-guessing myself a bit. And I'm paraphrasing, of course, because Kirk has the files…” Deena trailed off and looked down. As if summoned, Kirk walked past the stairs, his back to the detectives, heading for the far end of the platform. Aaron noticed her distraction and did his best to recapture Deena's attention. “Hey, over here.”

“Sorry. Like I said, the key suspect isn't one person, I don't think, but rather a group of THF thugs who had dealings with Monroe and also were suspects during the whole thing we had down South.”

“Really.” Aaron stepped away and crossed his arms, processing this new information. “I thought we covered all the suspects. There was a
lot
of Human Front activity in Atlanta. Not only because of the gang wars, but also tied into—”

“—the Liberty case, right. Some of these guys were incarcerated in Atlanta at the time of the later murders.”

“Guys plural.”

“Plural like a motherfucker.”

Aaron leaned against the railing, mulling over the data in his head. “Okay, so multiple suspects. Why not bring them in?”

“Kirk and I wanted to run our findings past Walker, but the man had an important meeting this morning.”

“Touché.”

“Touché like a motherfucker.”

“Quit it.”

“Detective?”

Deena turned. Corbin Kirk hesitated halfway between the landing and the subway platform, tentatively trying to get her attention. He clutched a tablet and seemed unsure as to whether or not he should approach, eyes darting between his senior partner and the special investigator with whom she was conversing. Aaron waved him closer, and Kirk mounted the last few steps. His collar was rumpled in a way that made Deena want to mother the poor kid; his straw-colored hair, however, was immaculate and glistening with product and sweat. Kirk pointed to the platform where an idling E train sat—the northern line, traveling from the Sprawl to Harrow Falls and Alvindale. The doors were open, and the inside of the car teemed with lights and cops.

“You should see this,” he suggested, voice cracking. On closer inspection, Kirk looked green around the edges; as if he'd been sick.
Come on, new fish,
Deena begged.
Keep it together in front of my ex.
Rolling her eyes, she started down the stairs.
Too late
. The impression had been made, and unless Kirk was telepathic, her request wouldn't have helped. Of course, in this town, stranger things had happened.

They reached the platform, skirting the usual array of gawking cops and harried technicians. The medical examiner had yet to arrive, though a handful of paramedics were on-site, consulting with Walker and Forensics. Deena sidled up alongside her partner, arching an eyebrow as she looked into the compartment. Police tape sectioned off a corner of the car, and two men moved about the space, taking pictures and lifting samples. The wall caught her eye; it was red, and Deena thought she saw men on a bench, calmly watching the police at work.

“Whadda we got?” she inquired, craning her neck to see past her partner.

Walker glanced Deena's way, his conversation having been interrupted, finally noticing that she was on scene. “I got this.”

“Eff that. What is it? Attack of the Mole People?”

He edged her back from the door toward the middle of the platform. “You have a case, Deena. An important case with a timeline. Go deal with it, and leave this to me.”

Kirk lifted two fingers to get their attention. “The thing is, Detectives—”

Deena held out a finger of her own. “Quiet, you. Listen, Walker: I can work both, and by the way? When you whisk my new partner off for an evening of glamour below the city, well—”

“Detective Boucher, escort Deena back to the station, would you?”

Aaron shrugged and peered through the open doors. “Hey, I'm just here for the laughs and wit. Besides, I…” Aaron hesitated and then whistled low and long. “
Damn
. Hello, what have we here?”

Curiosity piqued, Deena started for the open doors. Kirk did his best to deflect her, but all that got him was an elbow to the ribs. “Wait,” he sputtered, scuttling along in her wake, “I think you should know—”

Deena ducked inside the car, and Kirk followed. The cops turned around, drawn by their presence, and then stepped aside to give the detectives a clearer view. Three men sat next to each other, as Deena had thought, side-by-side on a seat fit for four. A horrible odor wafted off their bodies, filling the car. It smelled as if cheese had been left out in the sun for a week. The men sat demurely, shoulders rubbing up against one another, facing forward as if waiting to reach their destination. At least Deena imagined they had faces; all three had been cleanly decapitated. Their necks were cauterized near the Adam's apple. Blood had spattered against the wall, marring a city map and the adjacent, filthy window. The closest man's arms, emerging from a straining black T-shirt, had been crossed so that both hands rested in his lap. The hands were gone, wrists burned to match his neck. The forearms had been taped to his jeans, and Deena could see they were covered with tattoos: snakes, bullets, and letters … a near-match to Joe Monroe's. The other two bodies were dressed more professionally: ties and dress shirts, khakis and argyle. The corpse in the middle had its hands taped to a newspaper; both arms rigged and lifted with wire, making it appear as if he were casually perusing the headlines. His tie was askew, as were his socks, and Deena was horrified to realize the ankles had been stuck into two of the missing heads, mouths agape and teeth shattered. The last dead man protected a bag under his arm; slung over his shoulder, it rested heavily on the fourth seat. The interior had been exposed, and Deena could see the final head peeking out from within the bag, eyes missing and jaw removed. All three corpses had bare forearms; all three inscribed with Human Front tattoos. But Deena barely noticed.

Five words, painted on the wall in blood, had her full attention.

She stepped out of the car, breathing the sour air of the station, doing her best to purge the metallic smell of blood and rotting flesh from her nose. Aaron and Kirk joined her, holding their breath, but Deena sensed the sway in Kirk's step, intuiting the rookie was about to lose his lunch. Perhaps for the second time that morning.

“Let's be honest, Detective Kirk,” she suggested, a faint grin reaching her lips. “Santa delivered. This worked out better than we expected.”

He slowly nodded. “Happy holidays.”

Deena turned to Aaron, gesturing with her chin. “Déjà vu like a freight train.”

Aaron steadied himself with a hand against the door. He couldn't look away from the credo written above the dead men's heads.
In the Name of Liberty,
it read. Just as it had twelve years earlier.

Just as it had in Atlanta.

 

7

December. Monday afternoon. 1:02
P.M.

Corbin Kirk wobbled. Walker caught the queasy look on the rookie's face. He placed a steady hand against Kirk's back. “Easy there,” the big man said. “You okay?”

“Sweet baby Jesus, not again,” Kirk answered, lurching onto the platform, doubling over and out of view.

Walker stuck a hand in his pocket. “Yeah, I felt that way the first time, too. Ten years back? More?” He looked sideways at Boucher, as if by way of confirmation.

“Twelve,” Boucher corrected, the investigator's focus still glued to the wall.

“Exactly. Hits you in the eyes and then sneaks up on the skull and gut. Kicks you over, leaves room in the breadbasket for more to wrench. Hey, Deena?”

“Yeah?” Walker's partner was still wrestling with the scene, mentally cataloging and ascertaining what the triple-homicide meant to her already difficult case. The case that Christian Walker had been warned to leave alone.

Wouldn't be the first,
he mused.
Nor the last
. “Food for thought?”

Kirk retched out on the platform, wetly and loudly. “Sick now,” he begged. “Don't talk about food.”

Deena moved into the compartment, sidestepping random outliers of gore. She picked her way closer to the decapitated trio, slipping an unsharpened pencil from her coat and—despite squawks of protest from the forensic specialists—gently prodded various body parts to see if they might prod back. The pencil traced intangible lines from corpse to the wall and then down to the bag and up again, coming to a climax at the leftmost forearm. She tapped a thoughtful staccato against the man's tattoos.

“Can't be coincidence, can it?” She peered at Walker, searching for assent.

“Doubtful. Motive seems unclear. Someone simply killing bigots?”

Boucher stepped into the car, cheeks sallow and Adam's apple working. “We don't know for certain that Monroe was—”

Deena touched Boucher's forearm. “Lower,” she warned. “Let's not broadcast that. Privileged information between you, me, Walker, and the human sprinkler out there.” Kirk showed signs of recovery and moved to join them. “General rule: keep it contained. Understood, new fish?” Kirk weakly nodded, doing his best to remain composed.

“Fine,” Boucher agreed. “Even still: different methods, opposite sides of town. Possibly around the same time—bodies have clearly been here for a while. Liberty tag here, but not at Monroe's. Two different killers?”

“Possible,” Walker reluctantly ventured. “Bleeding and damage are surgical here. The cuts more deliberate; less carnage. But there's no denying the larger connections.”

“Which are?”

Deena flapped a hand at Kirk, and the rookie fumbled with his tablet. He triggered an app, displaying a series of coded departmental photos. He swiped up, flipping them like trading cards, shuffling until he slowed around a series of specific images. Walker recognized the faces—all three were present in the car, though still attached to a set of shoulders in the unflattering photos. Bruisers all, scowls ringed by stitches and the shadows of forgotten wounds. One of the men wore a snake tattoo above an eye; Walker instinctively glanced downward, seeking the flesh-and-blood version, finding it winking at him from within the blood-encrusted bag.

“Aside from matching tattoos,” Walker explained, the other detectives paying attention to every whispered word, “these men crossed Joe's path often in the not-so-recent past. Mine, as well.”

“Atlanta?”

“Too hot for you?” Joe asked Walker, nursing their drinks at the long, mirrored bar. “Maybe you're in the wrong goddamn business.” They laughed and turned their attention to the girls, naked bodies writhing across a glistening stage, as flashes of hammering gunfire winked outside the only window. The streets burned, riots flared, and people died, but here in the Shaft, the golden gods lived.

That was Detroit, nearly forty years ago. Before Atlanta.

“Walker?” Deena eyed her partner, concern widening her inquisitive expression. He cleared the daydream from his mind.

“Yes, Atlanta. Among other cities.”

Boucher furrowed his brow, staring at the motto above the grisly scene. The medical examiner had arrived and rudely elbowed through the crowd that had gathered in—possibly tainting—his crime scene. He shooed them away, and the quartet of detectives huddled against a pylon near the opposite end of the platform. Deena plucked Kirk's tablet from the baby's fingers and scrolled through the police records, sorting and filtering as she searched for connections between the Human Front and Joe Monroe.

Walker leaned in. “The dead gentlemen? Brothers, three of five. The other two died before your time; one in Atlanta. Part of the original Liberty murders.”

Boucher turned to Walker, raising an eyebrow. “A copycat, finishing the job?”

“Could be the genuine article. The original murders went unsolved, remember?”

Boucher fumed. “Not for lack of trying. But why here, why now?”