Powers (32 page)

Enki furrowed her brow. “You think the Bouchers were in on it? You said the victims were all men and women the judge couldn't convict.”

“No,” Deena assured the other detective. “You don't know the judge. I … I … just, the guy's the epitome of what it
means
to be a good man.”

“You thought the same about Aaron, not to mention your father.”

Deena frowned and sat back, folding her arms.
I don't buy it. There's no
way
the judge is involved … but Aaron? Do I believe for a second he might be lying, might have helped Dad in order to straighten up the judge's spotty record? I didn't two days ago, but now … now, I can't be certain.
She looked over at Walker, eyes closed and breathing through a tube.
You would know. You were certain. Wake up, dumb-ass. Wake up and help us.
But Walker continued to sleep, his ragged breath vibrating the IV drip. Deena motioned for Enki to drag her chair to the window, away from the bed, and she followed suit. They hunkered, dropping voices to a whisper, passing facts back and forth like a football.

“Okay,” Deena started, “so we know the killer can't be Monroe. Because, I mean, weird shit happens in this town, but I know for a fact that dude's cooling in the morgue.”

“Right.” Enki nodded, counting on her fingers. “So that leaves Crane, Aaron, your father…?”

Deena shrugged. “Crossed my mind. Waldo could have poisoned himself.”

“Yeah, but he was in a hospital bed while Walker's house fell down. Not to mention while Quince was shot on Bernardin and E. Plus, you know, it coulda been a host of other folks connected to the original killings, the gang war, and the Front.”

“See…” Deena rubbed her brow with both sets of fingers. “That's what's getting me. Who says it's
one
guy? Who knows if we have one or two killers on our hands—one here, one in Atlanta—and it's some kind of fucked-up revenge scheme?”

“You think there's a dark horse?”

“Hoping.” She didn't want it to be the most obvious choice. But Deena knew in her heart of hearts that Occam's razor would prove out: the simplest solution usually turned out to be correct. “Hoping, but I doubt it. The main issue we've always had with Liberty is that there's no pattern—no two killings happen the same way or at the same location. There's nothing that connects one killing to the other.”

Enki thought for a moment and then stood up. She breathed onto the frigid window, cooled by the December chill. “Okay, let's go with location. Murder one?”

“Here in the city, 851 Taylor.”

Enki used her finger to write it onto the window. “Then the Rammlers at Ellis Station.” The second location quickly joined the first. “Okay, that's two,” she said. “Next was Quince. The Nexus Club, or nearby.”

“Yeah … no, no, wait. That's where Liberty
attacked
Quince, but she didn't die until—”

“—she got to Bernardin and E, where I found the poor girl.” Enki nodded and, misting the lower half of the window, added it to the list.

“Okay, so my father was in Atlanta.”

“Right, and Walker was here. Andreyko Place. But we don't know that was a Liberty killing yet. Plus, don't forget, Monroe's crime scene also had no tag.”

Deena rubbed her temple. “Fuck. This is giving me a headache. What the hell do all those locations have to do with one another?”

Enki studied the list. “Not much. It's letters on a window. No connection.”

Deena glanced up.
Hang on.
“What did you say?”

“Letters on a window. What?”

Deena stood up. A light came on inside her mind, illuminating a wonderful—possibly horrible—truth. She'd felt it before, on earlier cases. The moment where the tumblers unlocked and everything clicked into place. Enki had been on the right track—the locations being the tenuous connection—but the addresses or general locations …

 … the specifics. The devil in the details.
She stepped over to the window, elbowing her friend aside. Out in the hallway, she could hear cops and doctors arguing outside the door. Deena didn't care—no one was getting inside, not until she pieced this together.
And I think … I
think
I'm close. This is important. The details. Both of the case and maybe my past. Shit, I hope I'm right.

Shit, I hope I'm
not
.

Deena marked a letter next to the first location, 851 Taylor. It was the letter
B
.

Enki looked confused. “I don't get it.”

“Not yet you don't.” She continued to write, inscribing a letter
E
adjacent to Ellis Station, and then circled the
E
next to Bernardin.

“‘
Bee
'? We looking for an apiarist with a grudge?”

Deena sighed. “Seriously, shut up. Look: Monroe was killed in apartment 3
B
. The Rammlers? We found them on the
E
line.”

Enki nodded and then pointed to the circle. “Oh. Okay, I get it. I get it. They all have a letter in them. Bernardin and
E
. What's Walker's apartment number?”

Deena shook her head. “See, I don't think Walker was part of this. I think that was … that was removing a potential obstacle. He just got in the way.”

Enki seemed skeptical. “I dunno. Seems convenient to leave it out.”

“Trust me. I don't think Walker's building was supposed to go. He was just collateral damage; if Christian had walked away, if he'd just kept his mouth shut, he would have been allowed to live. That's why the commission, all of a sudden—assuming there ever
was
a commission—broke protocol to move him aside. Maybe. That seems too much like a conspiracy rabbit hole I don't want to go down, though.”

“Wait, wait,
wait
. You think … you think
Aaron
is the killer. Right?”

Deena teared up as she traced a line to the letters. “I know he is, and this is the genius in his plan: he left a riddle that no one could solve but me…… or maybe his father, depending on his history with the judge. That's why he sidelined me in Atlanta. That's why he left me behind.”

“Deena…”

“Look. Look at this.” Her finger strafed the surface of the window. “
B
 …
E
 …
E
…” She brought the line up, back toward Waldo's location. “And
B
.”

“There a
B
in your dad's address?”

“No. But Liberty used hepatitis B as the murder weapon.”

“Again,” Enki reiterated, “I dunno. Seems like an awfully convenient acrostic. And what the hell does ‘beeb' mean? Like ‘the Bieb,' that singer? Is it a music thing?”

Deena pointed at Enki in triumph. “Exactly. But not exactly.”

“The
chords
.” Aaron's eyes twinkled, reflecting the sunlight streaming through the window. “The same chords again.”

Deena flopped onto the bed. She groaned. “God. The chords again? This may be way on the nose, bro, but you're like a broken record with those things.”

Aaron sat up and spread his hands, wiry arms stretching against his cotton tee. “You gotta hand it to me, lady. There are five songs topping the charts with the same BEEBA chord structure. B-E-E-B-A. Even more when you page through the annals of rock history—”

Deena smiled. Her heart hurt, and she was sad, but she'd managed to pull her shit out of the wreckage yet again, and so there was triumphant satisfaction, as well. “I quite like the annals,” she echoed herself, and then she explained Aaron Boucher's chord theory to Detective Enki Sunrise.

“Okay,” Enki acknowledged, “I mean, I guess it fits. But you're missing a letter, right? Where's the
A
?”

“Not sure. Could be a location, a method, a secret codename, anything.” Deena wracked her brain, racing to think. If it were a location, where would that location be? She ruled out the precinct, Ellis General, and her own apartment, not to mention Enki's and the captain's. Anxious, desperate to put it together, she ran through the names of all individuals she could possibly connect to both the Monroe and Liberty cases. And then it hit her. If everything that her father had told her was true—if Monroe and Aaron had quietly been working together in Atlanta, and Aaron was using the new murders to tie up loose ends … to finish off those in the know … then there were only two possible victims. Aaron would never kill the judge, so that left only one possible location …

“500 Fialkov Way, suite 4
A
.” Horrified, she turned to Enki Sunrise. “My crazy ex-boyfriend is gonna kill Malachi Crane.”

Enki nodded and hustled to the door. She wrenched it open and stuck her head into the hallway, snapping to the cops for help. “Hey—I need a current location on Aaron Boucher. He's that special investigator over from Washington, dragged in to help on the Liberty murders. APB, wide, focused on the area around Fialkov Way, the Human Front building. Find him; get him locked down and in cuffs.”

Enki came back inside. “You think we missed him? Should we call Crane?”

“No, I'm going over there. This ends before noon.”

Enki placed a hand on Deena's. “I'm with you.”

“So am I,” Walker suddenly chimed in.

Surprised, they turned back to the bed. Walker was sitting with his feet on the ground, naked from the waist up. He was busying himself at his wrists, trying to remove the IV since he'd already pulled the tube out of his throat. His voice was dry and raspy, and he looked as if he'd been on the losing end of a fight with a Mack truck. But his eyes were clear and determined, despite the medicine pumping through his veins.

“Fuck that,” Deena replied, moving toward the bed. She grabbed one arm, Enki the other, and they wrestled the injured, protesting detective back onto the sheets. “You're staying here and getting better. Remember? You're off the goddamn case.”

A beat cop ducked into the room, addressing Enki and then smiling when he saw that Walker was awake. “Detectives? We have a location on Special Investigator Boucher. Hacked into his rental's LoJack system; tagged him on Paige, coming up on Fialkov Way.”

The ladies traded knowing glances, and then Deena barked at the cop, “Get a team out there, nice and discreet. Cut him off before he gets to 500 Fialkov; keep him quiet until I arrive. Don't alert anyone in the building—if he makes it that far, and he should
not
make it that far. I'll join them presently. And someone call Judge Kenneth Boucher—his number should be on file. Get him down to the station—keep him situated until we get back there with his son.”

The cop nodded. “I'll keep it on the local dispatch, contained frequency. They'll send a few cruisers down.” He left the room, leaving the three detectives alone.

Walker tried to sit up again. He grabbed Deena's forearm, and she looked down and then lost herself in her partner's steely, watery eyes. “Deena…” he began, wheezy voice wavering on the edge of forever. They hadn't seen each other in a day, but the previous twenty-four hours had put each of them through the wringer. They had everything to say, yet nothing was required; as partners, they were allowed that shorthand. Anyway, it would have been awkward. She'd basically reamed him out in a room very much like this one, back when she'd been on the other end of the pain stick … and to be honest, her neck and head still throbbed. She was dealing with her baggage, Walker his own. And Deena also knew there was something else going on—something about Monroe, about the last few days, that she would never truly understand. She could let that go. Not knowing all of Walker's secrets didn't mean she couldn't trust him as a partner. She had secrets of her own—as had her father, Aaron, and all the rest. But partners had to put that shit aside.

Walker would open up when he felt it necessary. He'd unload his doubt, guilt, and the history that weighed him down—whether related to this case or something completely new. One day—probably not today or tomorrow. And that was fine. Deena, meanwhile, would endeavor to do the same. She'd hopefully explain her recent emotional roller coaster … the lies and truths she'd discovered over the last three days. That was coming—but for now, they needed to trust one another, work together to solve the maelstrom on their doorstep, and put an end to the rich history of death and lies.

Walker opened his mouth again, trying to explain or apologize, but Deena cut off the big man before he could continue.

“No, jerk. You're staying here. Enki and I got this one. And keep your mouth shut; I know what you're trying to say.”

Walker shot her a quizzical glance and then lifted himself off the pillow.

“No,” she answered his unspoken question, coupling it with a smile. “There isn't any fuckin' coffee.”

 

24

December. Wednesday morning. 11:42
A.M.

Enki's Range Rover swerved around the corner of Parker and Haspiel and then shot across an alley to connect with Fialkov Way. They were five minutes out, and Enki did her best to ensure the SUV didn't skid in the freshly falling snow. Wipers squeaked against the windshield. Deena covered her ear with one hand, ignoring the complaining wipers as she earnestly spoke into her cell phone.

“Yes,” she confirmed for the cop on the other end of the line, “I know he's no longer on the force, but his life is in danger. Move him off the ward and into protective custody
now
. That's right. Waldo Pilgr—what? Hey, look; no one's asking you to … no … no, hey, are you a
cop
? Oh, an
agent
. My apologies.” Deena rolled her eyes as Enki grinned in the driver's seat, gripping the wheel and slaloming past Fialkov's 800 block. “Look, Waldo Pilgrim. He's involved in the Liberty murders—remember those?
Yeaaaah
. There you go. Just get him into custody. Lock him up for all I care. But you have to
protect
him until he can testify. Okay? Okay … great. Thank you again. And for the other thing, right. I appreciate it all. You, too.”