Powers (24 page)

Waldo melted back into the plush, upholstered recliner and stroked his beard. “Don't put words in my mouth. Who knows
what
the future would have held? All I'm saying is that what
you
did”—waving in Aaron's general direction—“that was the
right
goddamn thing to do for
you
. Even if the end result fucked me. Even if it did make me lonely, broke, and unemployed.”

Now Aaron folded his arms across his chest, resting back against the flowered, slightly stained sofa cushions. “Well, you only have yourself to blame, Waldo.”

“Come on. And the judge, in the end.”

Aaron sputtered and sat forward again, elbowing Deena slightly aside. “
What?
Hey,
fucker
—”

“Yeah, if the two of you hadn't—”

“Shut your
goddamn
mouth. Where do
you
get the
balls
—”

“Hey!” Deena got to her feet and moved between the two men. “This is pointless. You”—at Waldo, a finger directly in his face—“are the same son of a bitch you were when I left. I'm not here because I thought any different about that. I have no delusions about our relationship, and I'm not here because I'm looking for reconciliation or any of that horseshit. And you”—Aaron this time, seething on the couch—“promised to let the past be the past, shitty as it is. When I allowed you to come on this trip, I had you agree to that. Yes, he broke my trust, broke yours and my mom's. Yes, he's a terrible father and an even worse excuse for a human being.… I mean, he's sitting here at noon on a Tuesday and clearly doesn't have a job or a girlfriend to occupy his time.” Her father paled at that; she'd hit too close to his tastefully appointed yet squalid home. “But I am on the clock, and time is running out. I'd rather not wallow in the shit anymore. So let's do what we came here to do, and then I can get the fuck out of his sight and the hell out of this city.”

Deena stood between Aaron and Waldo, attempting to catch her breath and forget the memories that filled the room. Her heart hurt, filled with betrayal and pain, and her vision blurred as she looked from one former role model to the other. Both of these men had shaped Deena's life. The ideas and principles, which they had espoused before shattering her once-infallible vision of father and soul mate, had inspired her to be the detective she eventually became. Now, years later, after what seemed like a lifetime of heartbreak and pain, here she was, forced to make sense of a case that should have stayed dead. Forced to solve a murder with the help of the only men she'd loved enough to allow this close, the only men she knew who could cause this much pain.

Well, there was one more. But the less she thought about Walker, the better.

She turned to Waldo. “I hate you. I have for a long time. I can't see that changing just because we sat down after ten years of silence. But I do need your help. I have questions about a recent murder that connects to a series of murders that took place in Atlanta, many years ago. I'm pretty sure that only you can provide the answers I need.”

Waldo nodded and tapped his fingers on the armrest. “The Soldier. That's what you're talking about, right? I caught
Powers That Be
before you showed up, and they—”

“That's right. The Soldier's dead, but so are a few others. And it all ties into the Liberty murders.”

Waldo opened his mouth, but this time no sound emerged. His jaw sagged, and he stood up. He headed toward the rear of the apartment, beckoning for his guests to follow him into the kitchen. “Shit. You don't know yet, do you? We'd better eat, then. Sounds like we all could use it.”

Rummaging about half-empty cabinets, they were able to stretch lunch from a small pot of soup into three bowls and some salmon tacos. A handful of beers were passed around, but only Waldo judged it close enough to noon to twist a cap. Hunkered around a varnished wooden table, Deena caught her father up on the intricacies of the case, parceling out just enough information—the Soldier's murder, the Rammlers, Liberty, and both Crane's and Quince's testimonials—to clue him in. Aaron detailed the timeline, as well as the forensic reports from both crime scenes to better paint a fuller picture. They finished talking, and all but the beer and one of the tacos were gone. Deena took a drink of water and then settled back in her chair.

“Where were you this weekend, Dad?”

He cocked an eye and crossed his legs, pulling one heel up with a hand. “Seriously?”

“A name, a place. Anything at all?”

“Come on. Am I a suspect here? I haven't seen the Soldier, the Rammlers … anyone you mentioned in over ten fucking years.”

“Okay. So the weekend?”

Waldo threw back his head, sending hair and beard fluttering, and blew air between his teeth. “Jeez … this is so off the map, but
fuck
. Fine. I was working a private job.”

Aaron leaned forward. “Got someone who can verify that?”

“I do, but I don't know if you'll believe him.”

“Yeah? Why's that?”

Waldo turned Aaron's way, gave him the sharp stink-eye. “Because he ain't bright and shiny, right and wrong like
you
were,
Detective
Boucher.” He said the title with a sarcastic sneer, revealing a bit of dear old Dad.

“Hey,” Aaron said, rising up and shoving her father. “I said watch how you talk to me, Pilgrim.”

Waldo met his eye, pushing back. “Really? After everything, after all that happened and you
still
want my help … you come here and manhandle me? Fuck you!” They started grappling at the table, hands at each other's forearms, until Deena pried their hands apart and forced them to sit down.

“Hey! Idiots! We don't have time for this.”

Waldo sneered and wiped his nose as he settled back into his seat. He rubbed his arm; Deena could see the friction marks from where Aaron had grabbed it. Everyone took a moment, and then her father rolled his eyes and held out a hand, as if to offer a deal. “It was a dogfight, all right?”

Jesus,
she thought. “Of course it was. Here in Atlanta?”

“Over by the train yard. Dogs with Power juice to boost the odds. I do it a coupla times throughout the year; private security puts food on the table. Guy who runs it is named—”

Deena held out her hand and closed her eyes. “Leave it out, okay? Too much on my plate as it is to be running down a Powers dog ring right now.”

Waldo leaned back and shrugged.
Mea culpa
. “You asked.”

Deena edged her chair toward the table. “Tell me about the Liberty killings.”

“It's in the papers, or the library. Or fuck, just ask—” He started to wave a hand, but Aaron cut him off.

“No,
your
involvement. Tell us your part in the Liberty murders, Detective Pilgrim.”

He glared at Aaron, and Deena knew that the empty title rankled her father. He was gauging whether or not he might hit the other man, and she half hoped that he'd try. The resentment was still there, bubbling beneath the surface, and though Aaron had been gracious enough to let her lead this thing, she'd be happy to let him finish it. One bad move, one wrong word out of either one of their mouths might send this into fisticuffs and patricide. Then Waldo backed down, cleared his throat, and wiped his eyes. She spied tears glistening on his mustache and knew they'd struck a nerve.

“You really came all this way to do this, Deena? You hate me enough to make me relive my failures face-to-face? This couldn't have been done over the phone?”

She smiled sweetly and then leaned in with a predatory leer. “But then I wouldn't have the satisfaction of arresting you in person.”

Waldo nodded and cleared his throat again. “What do you want to know?”

“Wilhelmina Quince.”

“Wailin' Willie? Crane's girl. The bitch took the bench, put me away with your boyfriend here's help lo, those many years ago.”

Aaron cleared his throat. The steam from the soup had made the kitchen dry. “I'm not her boyfriend.”

Deena motioned for Aaron to ignore that. “How'd she put you away?”

Waldo slammed a hand on the table, jarring the empty bowls. “Dammit, Deena. You know.”

“Humor me, for old times' sake.”

He grimaced. “I put her on the street. Quince and a bunch of ugly fuckers back in the day. Me, Jack Owens, Roman Galenti … bunch of guys in the division. We put convicted killers and fanatic bigots back in circulation after the judge or some other schmuck had jailed them. In return, they did some jobs for us.”

“Like?”

He shrugged. “Muscle. Arson. Mostly killing. And only killing other criminals who were roaming free … those the system had trouble keeping behind bars.”

Aaron moved in to cross-examine the defeated former detective. “Like Blitzkrieg?”

“Yeah, and a Simon who operated in Atlanta at the time. Few others, small-timers. And, of course, a few of Crane's nearest and dearest.”

“One of the Rammler Brothers.”

Waldo absently scratched his throat and then placed both hands on the table, digging into its surface with his fingers. He warily glanced at Aaron. “That wasn't us. That was Liberty.”

“But
you
were Liberty. Willie claims you had her tag the murders with his motto.”

He smiled. “Yeah, that's right. Just a few. To cover it up. But we were only one of what had to be several killers in Atlanta at the time. No way one guy did all those Powers. No way one guy—or girl, don't shoot me—was that tough.” He dug at his neck again, scratching harder now. Waldo seemed flush, crimson creeping up behind his ears and from under the wifebeater. Sweat, possibly an after-effect of the soup and beer.

“You okay, Dad?” She squinted, peering at her father.

“Yeah, yeah … just indigestion. A little hot.”

“Okay, so you confused the Liberty investigation. That alone was enough to put you away. But they never tossed you in prison. That they reserved for Roman and Owens. Why'd you get off?”

Waldo looked at each detective in turn. “Come on, you both know.”

They traded glances. If Aaron knew something that she didn't, he'd been keeping her in the dark. Deena's father chuckled, a throaty laugh that sounded as if it came through a pocket of phlegm. “Let's say some of us cops weren't working alone.”

“What does that mean?”

“Put it together, kiddo.” Waldo paused for a moment to cough. “Yeah … I had help from above. Your murder victim, for one.”

Deena rubbed her mouth and processed the information. “Wait … are you telling me that the Citizen Soldier, Uncle Sam's poster child, was putting convicted felons back on the street? Which ones, exactly?”

“I dunno. All—
enh
 … excuse me—throat. All kinds. Mostly Human Front, which I'll admit was crazy.
Nnnngh
. 'Scuse. Again, dammit. Yeah, we made deals, ensured loyalties … but I figured out he was working for someone else.” Her dad smiled at them both.

Aaron's face clouded over, and he glanced at Deena. “And who would that be?”

Waldo smirked and settled back in the chair. “I'll bet you'd like tha—
koff!koff!—nnnn
…'scuse me.” He wiped spittle from his mouth. His eyes were bloodshot now, and the flush had reached his cheeks. “Nnnno … no,
Detective
Boucher, I'm gonna—
eeeeennnggh
 …
koff!kofffkoff!
Gnnnah…”

“Dad?” Concerned, Deena rose from her seat and moved next to Waldo. He waved her away, digging at his collar as he struggled to clear his throat. His whole face had turned crimson, and Aaron seemed uneasy, as well. “Dad, take a drink of water.”

Waldo held up a hand, palm out, and shook his head. “I'm fine … I'm … nnnnngccc … chhhh
koffkoff
…!” Deena's father stumbled to his feet, kicking back his chair while ravaging his neck with both sets of fingers, clawing and digging with all his might. Deena grabbed Waldo's arm, but he threw her off and pitched forward, face-first onto the table. Cutlery and bowls flew into the air, bottles broke, and the remains of the soup spattered onto the walls. The table splintered, legs heading one way and pieces of tabletop the other. Both Deena and Aaron rushed to Waldo's aid. He couldn't breathe, choking on either the tacos or something else. Deena tried the Heimlich maneuver and then began digging into Waldo's throat when that failed, attempting to dislodge whatever blocked his airway as she would a small child.

“Dad!” she screamed, hoping that she hadn't traveled all this way just to watch her father die. Sure, she hated him, but despite any sarcastic fancies of patricide, she had no desire to see him dead. She worked to save him, trying to free the airway, but his face was growing redder by the second.

“Call an ambulance!” she screamed at Aaron, and he scrambled into the living room to grab his phone. He'd left it on the sofa, and so Deena was left alone to keep her father alive. Every moment stretched into forever, and the longer she watched Waldo clutch and plead, the more she wondered what he might be seeing as the oxygen left his brain. Was it Deena, or maybe her mom? The beautiful life he'd thoroughly destroyed? Or was it, perhaps, the one he'd greedily embraced—the crime, the perks of being a famous detective on the take? What, Deena wondered, did her father wish or regret as his only daughter frantically tried to save him, here on the kitchen floor of a shitty apartment in a town he'd once allowed to burn with abandon?

She grabbed Waldo's shirt and lifted him into her arms. “I'm not going to let that happen!” she shouted. His eyes went wide, searching Deena's. Waldo tapped a finger against his throat, at the bottom of the Adam's apple, reflexively showing his daughter where it hurt oh god where it hurt and please wouldn't she quit fucking around and
save him
? She clawed and compressed and dug, and seconds turned to minutes and then years.