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  She searched for additional identifiers, hoping to key on any unique items that might stand out. The unit’s walls were free of decoration apart from a handful of erratically tacked posters; any personal photos the man possessed had been removed or jarred loose. Aside from the odd framed newspaper or curious knickknack, Deena could see nothing that spoke to whom the vic might be or what had caused his brutal demise.

  That’s when she saw the shield.

  She’d been looking for a murder weapon—a hammer or crowbar, say. But then it had caught her eye, partially hidden beneath the garbage. Deena’s jaw sagged, and she tapped Walker. He glanced back, and she noted tears in his eyes. He’d been crying; a bell sounded in Deena’s brain, alerting her to the fact that they’d reached that horrible moment. So long, paradise; have a drink, purgatory. Bound to be a long afternoon.

  “Got something?” Walker asked, clearly finished with half-assed banter.

  She cleared her throat and thrust her chin at the item—barely visible, obscured beneath trash and damage. Despite that, it was instantly recognizable to both detectives. He nodded as if confirming a notion he’d pieced together. Whatever the shield was doing in this dingy locale, it firmly intersected with the emotional turmoil that had given Walker the feels.

  “See it?” she whispered, begging the question as if he didn’t.

  “Course I do.”

  Deena raised an eyebrow. “And? What are we saying?”

  “We’re saying it’s him.”

  “Maybe not. People steal shit,” she suggested. “Neighborhood fits. The old man could have boosted it.”

  Walker shook his head. “No, that’s Joe. Even with the face, I know it’s him. Though I can’t for the life of me explain what he’s doing here.”

  Dammit, she thought. As they’d been talking, one of the technicians had discovered the shield beneath the glass. He barked excitedly and dragged it out. The other officers expressed skepticism; it had to be a replica, a cheap imitation. But the farther they pulled it into the light, the more impressive it appeared. By the time they set the circular shield on an end table, everyone believed it to be the genuine article. Slightly dented, the pitted disc bore signs of rough use—streaks of blood marred its surface, obscuring the cobalt-and-crimson eagle etched over black steel. Nicks and creases lined the edge; someone had used it as a hammer. Or a murder weapon.

  “The victim,” the medical examiner droned to Walker, jotting notes in an app as he jabbered away. “His age falls in the eighties, I’m gathering—”

  “Hundred and twelve,” Walker corrected, eyes glued to the gouged weapon.

  The ME looked up. “You sure?”

  “Twelve years ago, I attended his hundredth birthday party. I bought him a ducky tie and condoms. So yeah, Frank. I’m pretty sure.”

  Frank, the medical examiner, shrugged. “Fair enough. Hundred and twelve.” He ticked off salient points in a scrolling checklist, tapping his glasses against the tablet for emphasis. “Massive trauma to the skull, knees, and fingers. Multiple fractures at the hyoid, which suggests strangulation. Contusions along temple and heel. Heavy loss of blood due to wounds and chafing—the ropes, of course—and hundreds of abrasions that stem from what appears to be a shower of glass. None of which killed him, though. He’s been beaten to hell and back, but the actual cause of death in my humble opinion? Lack of oxygen.”

  He stepped toward the corpse, pointing out highlights. Deena detected a lilt in his voice, as if Frank enjoyed dragging them on a guided tour of a dead man’s wounds. She made a mental note to step on his toes.

  “The nose has been irreparably broken,” Frank was saying, “and his lungs have been punctured; note stabs to the back. He’s been attacked with a blunt instrument, mostly around the face and cranium. A hammer, maybe? Need samples, but I—”

  Deena coughed, subtly gesturing toward the bloodstained shield. Frank glanced its way and then dove back into his tablet, tap-tap-swiping away.

  “Right. That would do it. So bludgeoned with his shield, but the killer had to swing it with considerable momentum to effect this sort of damage. Really bring it down with enough force.”

  “So,” Deena summarized, “your expert opinion is that somebody drove a living legend’s nose through his brain with his own heavy, heavy shield. Yes?” A crowd had gathered, listening to the byplay.

  Frank’s grin widened. “No, see. You can’t kill a man like that. That’s a myth. The nose is comprised of cartilage, which doesn’t possess tensile—”

  “My point,” Deena interrupted, “remains that America’s greatest hero has been tied to an unflattering chair and murdered to pieces on skid row. Possibly by some psycho seeking revenge. That about right?”

  “I deal in facts, not guessing games, Detective Pilgrim. Could be a Power. Could just be a bruiser like Walker. A dude that works out, you know?”

  Deena interjected before Walker could reply, “You don’t really believe that.”

  Frank spread his hands. “Come on, Deena. Everyone knows this guy, even with hamburger for a nose. I’m guessing an archnemesis with a grudge—or government payback. Hell, it might just be the landlord looking to collect.” Frank turned away, preparing to tidy up. “But like I said, I deal in facts. I’ll leave conjecture to you, Detective.”

  The knot of cops drifted back to their tasks. Walker remained quiet—more so than usual, and Deena gave him space. She took advantage of the moment to grind her heel into Frank’s left sneaker. The medical examiner squealed in a way that made her feel vindicated. He gathered his kit and hurried far from Deena Pilgrim’s rogue brand of justice, leaving them to the body and their own conclusions.

  “You okay?” she asked Walker, concerned. Cases with personal attachments could fuck with a detective’s impartial nature. “I can take this,” she offered. “Just saying, I can gather leads on who iced the Citizen Soldier.”

  Walker suppressed a smile, clamping his lips in a way that set Deena on edge. He rested a hand on her arm, the lightest of touches to assure her that everything was copacetic. “I’m fine. And his name was Joe. Joseph Monroe, U.S. Army captain, Fifth Regimental Combat Team.”

  “A.k.a., the ultimate boy scout. The thrilla in vanilla—”

  “Deena…”

  “Wait, wait—you gotta do these things in threes or you lose the comic theory. The thrilla in vanilla, aaaand…” She paused for effect, pushing Walker’s patience. “Aaaand…?” She came up blank. “Dammit. I had it. It’ll come to me.”

  “Nice. Dignified.”

  Deena took a breath. “Okay, so Joe Monroe … seriously? ‘Joe Monroe’?” A look from Walker suggested it might be best to drop the sass. “Fine. Joe Monroe, otherwise known as the Citizen Soldier. The most visible hero in America, on account that he’s won, like, five wars and advises the president. This guy, this magazine-cover celebrity, someone out there got a hard-on for him to die.”

  “Go on.”

  Deena gestured toward Joe’s mashed face. “Killer uses the shield in a fit of irony, caves in skull, leaves him for dead. We make a list of known enemies. SOP.”

  Walker set his jaw. “More to it than that.”

  “Don’t overthink it, Walker. Even me, with my new-school, sarcastic sensibilities, even I have mad Citizen Soldier knowledge. Could name five suspects just off the top of my head.” She ticked them off with her fingers. “Captain Korea. Boom! One. The Tet Offenders. Zing—that’s two. The Klux Klan Krew, Doctor Diabolical, Ho She Grin … those are just from the comics, mind you.”

  Walker ignored Deena and stepped closer to the chair, placing hands on his hips and looking down at the body. “Call back Forensics. Anyone who’s seen this apartment in the last few hours.”

  She wanted to scream. “Seriously? Dude, we should run names, get ahead of this before it leaks. Someone will, you know—News 12, Powers That Be. In two hours, every liberal with an Instagram is gonna fill the Web with sensitively filtered memorial memes, and I want to have a suspect before
that happens.”

  Walker bent his knees and rubbed his chin. He cocked his head and then beckoned for Deena to join him on the floor. Exasperated, she rubbed her eyes. “What—are you kidding me? Look, Walker, come on. This guy’s the example for what it means to have powers. There’s half a dozen suspects we can drag downtown based on fucking history alone. What are we doing?”

  He pointed to a tattoo on Joe’s arm. “Look here.”

  “Yeah, so? Uncle Sam had a thing for ink. Most old soldiers do.”

  “This ink is why we can’t rush this. Why this can’t get out.”

  Deena hunkered down, doing her best to keep from kneeling in human detritus, and angled her head to better see the victim’s forearm.

  Snakes and bullets. A fist breaking lightning bolts. T.H.F.

  She furrowed her brow. “I’ve seen that before. Where?”

  “You’ve seen a more stylized version. A logo.”

  Deena nodded, intrigued. “Yeah. With the lightning and … but ‘THF’? I don’t … a name? A relative?”

  “Nope. Letters go with the fist—and to be honest, the snakes.” He lightly slapped his cheek, grimacing and squinting. “Ah, dammit, Joe. Is this a lead, or you telling us something?”

  Deena volleyed between the curious tattoo and Walker’s distraught expression. “What am I missing? ‘THF.’ Tight High Fanny? Terribly Hot Fart?”

  “Deena.”

  “Ah-ah-ah. Rule of threes.”

  He dropped both hands between his knees and looked Deena’s way with a tired, expectant stare, waiting for her to finish.

  “I got it … I got it—yes! Tense Hero Friend! Boom.” Deena grinned and faced her partner, softening her eyes when she caught his annoyed expression. “Because you’re the friend. This way you’re involved. No, no—don’t thank me.”

  “You done?”

  “For now. So, THF?”

  “The Human Front.”

  Suddenly, the logo came rushing back to her—as did the reason for Walker’s reticence. The Human Front. Citizen Soldier.

  Deena stood up and patted dust off her knees. This morning’s happy driving song had long been forgotten. This was way past purgatory and out into damnation.

  “Shit,” she announced to the room at large. “Merry fucking Christmas. There goes my week.”

  2

  December. Monday morning. 8:13 A.M.

  One hour later, Walker pushed his way through the precinct doors. Deena shadowed him, still grappling with what they’d seen downtown. Forensics had already locked down the apartment and quietly run the body to the morgue. It had been transported via a confusing sequence of routes, designed to lose anyone with unusual interest. Now they were determined to outrace social media and the twenty-four-hour news cycle, but first they had to loop in the captain.

  The precinct was busy, packed with the standard assortment of low-level Powers and drug-addled hookers. Sad-looking holiday streamers had been strung through the rafters, a spattering of tinsel taped around the duty roster on the large smart board. In the corner, some snot-nosed banger kid was dry-humping the station’s Christmas tree. Walker greeted several ranking officers, pointed out the kid, and then headed toward the large office in the back-left corner. Deena followed, dropping her jacket across her desk as they walked past. Several detectives glanced their way, noting the determination with which the partners crossed the room, and then went back to cases, oblivious to the shit storm about to descend on the overworked, understaffed Powers Homicide Division.

  The door to the captain’s office stood slightly ajar. Captain Emile Cross looked up from his work—scrolling through budget requests on an ancient mobile tablet—as they walked in. He distractedly waved to a pair of open seats. Deena dropped into one, slapping both palms on the armrests. Waiting for the captain to acknowledge their presence, she took a moment to take in the surroundings. Barely a personal effect in sight; the captain had taken to a minimalist decorative style engendered by more of a practical than an emotional sense of reasoning. Most of the homicide staff had adopted the same policy, unwilling to lose precious trinkets to another riot or attack. Several binders lined a metal file cabinet against the left-hand wall, and a stack of law books had been inserted into a wooden bookshelf behind the captain’s chair. A handful of degrees completed the picture, the only nonessential item to be seen an autographed baseball signed by a briefly famous Power with a penchant for sports. The ball rested on the blotter; Cross—a likeable bulldog of a man with a gruff exterior but a good heart—used it as a paperweight, stabilizing the mountains of reports that threatened to overwhelm his desk.

  He plugged the tablet into its charger, giving half his attention to the detectives as he dug through his desk. “This had better be important. I don’t even know what you want, but today I just don’t have time for your usual drama.”

  Walker folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “That call we took? Murder at Taylor and Kirby? Guy’s name was Joseph Monroe.”

  Cross distractedly registered the name, barely letting it settle in. “Yeah? Got a record? Look, Walker, we need to talk about … this … wait.” He sat back in his chair, finally locking eyes with the partners. “‘Monroe’? Like, Joe Monroe?”

  Walker gave the captain a knowing look. “That’s right.”

  The captain swiveled away from the detectives. Deena and Walker shared a glance, waiting for him to break the awkward silence. Finally, the captain slammed his fist on the desk, sending papers flying and the baseball rolling to the floor.

  “Goddammit!” he cried in anguish, capturing the attention of cops within earshot, loitering outside his office. He jabbed an accusatory finger at Walker. “No. You hear me, Walker? Absolutely not. You’re off this case.”

  Walker’s face drained of color, and after a moment, he doled out a careful response. “No. Joe was my friend.”

  “Exactly. You’re too close. Pilgrim will run it. I’m partnering you with Detective Kirk. He’s new—young, needs some experience, and I think—”

  Before Cross could finish his sentence, both detectives voiced their displeasure. “What?” Deena argued, hands wide in disbelief. “No fucking way! I already have a partner.” Walker, meanwhile, calmly made his case, explaining the importance of his involvement. “There’s a larger issue, Cap. Listen, we have to keep it contained or—”

  “Enough!” Cross sliced a hand through the air, indicating that the discussion was at an end. “The both of you. I’ve been dodging bullets all morning—bullets with your name on them, Walker.”

  They paused in their gesticulations and stared at the captain. “Bullets?” Walker asked. “What bullets?”

  Cross waved a hand at his door and then pointed up toward the ceiling. “Bullets from above, fired from god knows where. City hall, federal—hell, maybe Washington. I got special investigators breathing down my neck, poking their nose up my tuchis ’cause of that disaster with the Powers Bureau.”

  “The bureau?” Deena snorted with disdain. “LA was, like, three years ago.”

  “The speed at which your government works. Regardless, some commission plans to investigate select law enforcement agents. Cops with powers. You read, Walker?”

  A sliver of ice slithered down Deena’s spine. “Wait, hang on; Walker doesn’t have powers. Not anymore.”

  “Used to, though. His identity as Diamond is more of an open secret than my raging alcoholism.” Cross turned to Walker, explaining in measured tones, “You were famous, Christian. That level of fame paints a target here”—Cross stuck a finger into Walker’s chest and then out at the bullpen—“and here. Your powers may be gone, but that doesn’t make you less of a white whale. And this commission is Captain Ahab.”

  The captain slumped into his chair, letting the wheels squeak in protest. “And now a dead legend’s cooling in my morgue. How do I keep that from Uncle Sam? How can I protect you from the media, Walker, when you have direct ties to an open murder investigation? I’m sorry, but no. You�
�re out.”

  Deena indignantly folded her arms. “Then so am I.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  She whirled to face her partner. Walker had turned to stare out into the house, taking in the maelstrom with his back to the desk. He leaned against the window, forehead resting against a fist. “He’s right. I’m a liability. It’s better for everyone if you handle this alone.”

  “Don’t I get a say?”

  Walker pounded on the window. A passing clerk jumped and dropped her files.

  “Let it go, Deena.”

  She fumed with annoyance. “Fine, dammit. I’ll handle it. Do I have to babysit this Kirk, though? Partner me with Enki.”

  “Detective Sunrise is unavailable,” Cross replied. “Assigned to another case. Drug stakeout—designer powers near D and Bernardin.” That was a shame; despite comparable sets of impressive lady balls, both of which often put them at odds, Deena respected Detective Enki Sunrise. Even though, after Sunrise had partnered with Walker when Deena had gone into exile, she’d later discovered Enki had been investigating them on behalf of Internal Affairs. The two women had buried the hatchet in due course; Sunrise, a cop with a bigger mouth than Deena’s, was the only detective in the division she trusted other than Walker.

  Deena exhaled. “Goddammit. Fine. I’ll take the newborn.”

  The captain nodded from his seat. “Thank you. What do we got on this?”

  She took a breath and launched into it. “We got loud and ugly. Victim beaten with his own shield; the ME likes asphyxiation for cause. No suspects yet, but I’ll gather a list of known enemies, possible beefs.”