Powers (4 page)

“What if it's real? What if Monroe put it there himself?”

Walker glared, face reddening. Clearly, he didn't share her concern.

“Beats me,” the captain responded. “I imagine there'll be a lot of disappointed kids this Christmas with action figures they'll be too ashamed to keep. For now, locate Corbin Kirk—you'll partner with him and show him the ropes. Keep this closed; say nothing to the press. Meanwhile, I'll try to get ahead of it.”

He faced Walker. “And you. A special investigator's on his way. Brush up on whatever shit you have to sling to stay out of trouble. I'll back you up, but I won't do time. Sling like your life depends on it. Because it does.”

Cross left the office. The partners followed him back into the hustle and hubbub of the bullpen. He scanned the crowd, ignoring jovial greetings from the detectives and barely subtle threats from nearby perps. Finally, his eyes landed on a baby-faced rookie fresh out of the oven, wearing a stupid-looking suit and an even dumber grin. Nervous eyes; kind of sweaty. Deena knew that she was looking at her temporary partner.

“Kirk,” the captain indicated, pointing in the kid's direction. “Partner up, keep it quiet, get it done.” He clasped Walker's arm and then rushed away, mingling with the crowd and heading for the commissioner's office.

Deena glared at Cross's retreating form, wishing she had handled him better. The prospect of babysitting in the middle of a high-profile murder case didn't excite her in the least. If Walker hadn't rolled over, she might have fought a little harder, but her docile partner seemed to have checked out. Distracted by the intricacies of the case, Walker would be as useless here as a bag of assholes. This special investigation—slapping the man's lost powers in his face—was just plain mean.

“You're good with this?” she inquired, giving Walker a long, inviting look. “Because I can hand this off.”

“Don't do that.” He turned her way, widening his eyes to rouse himself. “No, I'm good. It's fine. I have to deal with this bureau thing.”

“Apparently.”

“That a problem?”

Deena rolled her eyes. “This whole damn thing is a problem. I don't get it. I had powers, too. I was in Chicago and LA. Why aren't the feds tapping my ass?”

Walker smiled. “Feeling left out? I can toss some heat your way.”

“Like I don't have enough.” She groaned and violently dug her fingers through her hair. “Agggh. If it's not one thing, it's another.”

“Got a beef mentoring the new fish?”

“Not just that. I … look; I'm not in the mood to end up on TV again, okay? Another high-profile celebrity murder … like Z, like Retro Girl. A murder of a guy, by the way, who got his powers through the fucking government, I might add.”

Walker grimaced. “That's never been proven—”

“This inconsiderate jamoke who gets the Wonka golden ticket of Powers careers and, what? In his heart of hearts, he might really be a Powers-hater? I'm pissed at the hypocrisy, Walker. The never-ending flood of bullshit. I'm jaded, I'm frustrated, and I'm sick of the three-ring circus that is Powers Homicide, is all.”

He let her rant until she finally exhaled, letting out a second groan. Her eyes felt swollen and heavy. “I'm just tired. I can't do this much longer, you know? Things have changed.”

“What are you saying?”

“I just … I honestly don't know.”

Walker frowned and placed a hand on Deena's shoulder. It felt good; supportive. Protective. Warm. She squeezed it with her own, holding it firmly before letting it drop.

“What I do know is, yes,” she concluded, “I got a beef mentoring the new fish. I'd work quicker on my own.” She moved to her desk, and Walker fell into step at her side. They wormed between the throng of detectives, clerks, and criminals, wending their way toward the waiting rookie. Walker waved at Kirk, indicating that they were coming, which pissed Deena off even more.

He turned back to her and asked, “Where will you start?”

“Human Front, I suppose. They got that big, shiny office building uptown. I can rattle cages, shake loose a name. Who's the top bigot over there?”

Walker smiled. “Crane. The good reverend Malachi Crane. Nasty piece of work.”

“Riiiight. Preacher type turned businessman. Ran guns against powers in Atlanta, among others. Now he's politicized and legitimate.”

“Careful how you step. The Front used to be thugs with science weapons and hate speech, but these days, they're all lawyers and lobbyists. Malachi Crane can make your life very difficult.”

“Just going to ask some questions. Meanwhile, I'll have the baby check to see which of Crane's lynching buddies is still at large. Which are strong enough to have murdered—and maybe framed—your old pal Joe.”

Walker took Deena's forearm. Heat radiated through her face, flushing her from neck to scalp. “Thanks, Deena,” he said sincerely. “I appreciate this.”

“Hey, what else am I gonna do? You play nice with the special investigator.”

She grabbed her jacket as Walker eased into his seat. Throwing it over her shoulder, Deena snapped her fingers at the toddler with a badge. “You, six-year-old,” she barked. “You're with me.

Let's go bag us a hate crime.”

 

3

December. Monday morning. 9:41
A.M.

Walker had a secret.

Not his powers or his other identity; no, those tidbits had infiltrated the national consciousness long ago. Christian Walker's not-so-secret time as Diamond, a costumed hero with history as deep as public memory, stymied any hopes the detective had for maintaining any kind of private life. Every case that he and Pilgrim examined—no matter the circumstance—managed to let his alter ego cast a shadow on some aspect of the affair. So the powers … every intimate detail of his life behind the mask and portions that followed … not a single bit had ever been secret.

There were other secrets—Walker's incredible longevity, for one. Though he'd kept the details from many, his confidants knew that he'd worn countless names over the years. “Christian Walker” had been Diamond, sure, but before that he'd been Blue Streak, battling Al Capone's syphilitic crusade against decency, government, and the people of Chicago. Blue Streak had fought other, far bloodier wars overseas, alongside brave soldiers who had lost their lives pushing the line toward Hitler, Tojo, and Mussolini. He'd been Great Walker for a time. And even earlier, in places lost to memory like water through a sieve, he had been Gora. He'd spent an eternity wandering the planet, earning his surname, and gathering thousands of lies and millions of burdens. Yet the knowledge that Walker was centuries old had been granted to a select few. Zora had known, as did Retro Girl and Triphammer. Olympia and Z. Wolfe, may he rot in hell. And, of course, Joseph Monroe. All were dead now, having taken Walker's secrets to the grave. Still, one might have squealed. The information could be out there, circulating among the ether. And Walker had touched so many people in his lifetime that there had to be someone, anyone that still recognized him as Diamond, Blue Streak, or—god forbid—one of his other, tragic identities. So, no. Hardly secret.

The actual secret was this: Detective Christian Walker, Powers Homicide Division, had been Diamond. He'd been Blue Streak and Gora and the rest. He'd lived, loved, killed, and conquered. He'd seen empires rise and fall; villains wax and wane. Friends thrive and wither. Through it all, traversing the world with considerable weight on his broad, slumped shoulders, Christian Walker had endured. He'd persisted.

But so had the guilt.

He'd internalized every death and loss. Each era that flaked to dust at his feet left Walker feeling responsible and ashamed. That he should draw breath; should be allowed to go on while all the others had died. Hadn't he suffered a thousand lifetimes? Would Walker have to withstand watching Deena and Cross and everyone he ever loved … no, he couldn't bear thinking it, let alone live it. And so, the guilt—the fear and regret that he could not end the cycle. Instead, he moved forward. He made fewer attachments, regretting those he'd been foolish enough to encourage. And still his friends fell around him. Still he soldiered on while others—deserved or not—laid their lives at his feet. Or in Joe's case, across his desk.

Walker wiped his face, doing his best to ignore the clamor of the precinct. Deena had left twenty minutes ago, dragging the poor, unsuspecting rookie in her wake. He sniffed with remorse. Flashes of conflict filled his head, cities and costumes he hadn't seen or thought about in over ten years.

Hot enough for you?
Joe had asked.

The Human Front,
Walker recalled, decades-old arrests flitting through his mind.
Man, that takes me back. I haven't been to Atlanta in a dog's age.

Walker grabbed a closed manila folder that lay upon his desk. He flipped it around and untied the cord, digging inside for a set of Polaroids. He shuffled through the stack, turning them over, staring at the photographed remains of an old, dead friend.

He stared at a picture of Joe's tattooed arm. The incriminating logo slapped him in the face like an angry, vindictive girlfriend. Walker rubbed his chin, pensively meditating, debating the implications of the image in his hand.

Talk to me, Joe.

“Walker?”

He looked up, startled by the unexpected reply. Instead of his dead friend's ghost, Walker faced Melinda, the captain's assistant. She indicated an interview room, turning his attention to a shadow lurking behind the room's pebbled window. “Someone to see you,” she said, ending the statement with a questioning lilt.

Walker patted her arm. “Thanks. I'm expecting him.”

He navigated the bullpen like a frigate through troubled water. Arriving at the interview room, he held his breath, preparing to open the door to whatever might come. The shadow, having sensed Walker's presence, beckoned for the detective to enter. Putting Joe's case out of his mind for the time being, he turned the knob and stepped inside.

The man was slight and dark, clothed in a charcoal suit and cobalt power tie, both of which seemed expensive. Manicured nails, a silver tie pin, and a better-than-average watch completed the picture of upper-class extravagance—an impression Walker cataloged the moment he recognized the other man's face.

“Hello, Walker. You look like someone put coal in your Jockeys instead of your stocking.” He extended a hand as the detective closed the door. Walker stonewalled the investigator, briefly acknowledging the hand and then moving around the table to an available seat. After a moment, the investigator inclined his head in resigned comprehension, sighing as if to say that he understood the slight. He took the seat across from Walker, before which lay several folders, a mobile tablet, and some notebooks.

“I suppose I deserve that,” the investigator commented, shrugging and folding his arms across his chest. “This is about Deena, I suppose. I guess she finally filled you in. I thought the water would have moved out from under that particular bridge.”

Walker grimaced. “You're wrong, Boucher. And don't be cute.” He glanced around, taking in subtly placed surveillance cameras; cracked, green wallpaper; and the intricate system of spiderwebs that had overtaken the far-left corner. There was no one else in the room, nothing to eat or drink.

“What,” he demanded, “no fucking coffee?”

Aaron Boucher, special investigator, smiled and settled back. “When's the last time you saw Atlanta, Walker?”

“You drop by to reminisce and jerk my chain?”

“I suppose I asked because I know the topic makes you uncomfortable.”

Walker narrowed his eyes. “
You
make me uncomfortable. Atlanta makes me sad … and today, it makes me lonely.”

Boucher tapped the tablet, bringing it to life. “That's right,” he replied. “Just saw that report in the system. Entered by you and Detective Pilgrim?”

Walker flushed at the second mention of Deena's name, and he felt stupid for giving Boucher the satisfaction. He watched the investigator widen his smirk, and he wished he could wipe the smug expression away with a fist. Boucher had dropped her name to rattle Walker.

“Come on,” Walker complained. “You and I, we can't do this. There's too much history. You won't be impartial; I won't keep myself from breaking your face.”

“I can be impartial.”

“Well, I can't promise that I won't break your face.”

Boucher dismissively waved a hand. “Look,” he said, “this could have been handled differently. See? No drainers.”

“I don't have powers, Boucher. Not anymore.”

“But you did. Twice, I hear. That alone gives me—”

“We're going nowhere, and I don't have time for this.”

“—the right to … right, yeah. You have a homicide and a ticking clock. Another friend down,” Boucher teased. “Another hero bites the dust.”

“Charging me with something, or are we going to play grab ass all afternoon?” Walker sat on his hands, forcing himself to maintain his composure. Secrets and lies swirled about his head, heart thudding against his chest.

Boucher held out both palms in mock surrender. He flashed his teeth and flipped through a notebook until he found an empty page. Lifting a pen, Boucher leaned forward once more, pupils shimmering like the gleam of a shark's dead eyes.

“Let's start with the Soldier. Last time you spoke to one another?”

“Been a while. How about you?”

Aaron ignored that. “So you knew nothing about his death before this morning—or why they found him tied to a chair with his head caved in?”

“Not yet. Will soon.”

Boucher glanced at the notebook, flipping back a page. “But you were thick as thieves, right?”