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  Walker locked eyes with the special investigator. The noise of the station receded. Boucher was right; there was friction, but at least Walker would be heard and fairly treated. Stomping out like baby Godzilla wouldn’t solve a thing. And the longer they stayed in the room, the longer Walker had to figure out how to keep him from seeing Deena. Because if that happened, all bets were off.

  Walker sat back down, wordlessly indicating his consent. Boucher retook his seat as well. “Glad we’re on the same page. Why don’t we get that coffee and start again?”

  “The coffee’s terrible. Let’s get on with it.”

  “Fine. So again—the last time you saw Joseph Monroe before his murder?”

  Walker paged back through the years. “Twelve years ago. Hundredth birthday. Bought him a tie and condoms. Should be in my report.”

  Boucher offered Walker the ghost of a smile. “Condoms? What size?”

  “The autopsy should have any pertinent data you feel necessary for your investigation, Special Investigator Boucher.”

  “Fair enough. This was back in Atlanta?”

  Walker held out a palm as if to pass back the question. “You would know.”

  “Okay, then. That was the first time you worked alongside the federal bureau, right? You, the Soldier, Zora, several others.”

  “That’s right. Organized by Joe, partnering with police and homicide units to contain the proliferation of evil creeps throughout the city. Powers catching Powers.”

  “The gang wars.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And that wasn’t the first time you worked with the Citizen Soldier. First Detroit, Doomtown before that. Then earlier on, in Korea.”

  “Correct on all counts.”

  “And during that time, did Monroe show signs of associating with anti-American or anti-Powers organizations, such as the Human Front, the Communist Party, or the Klan?”

  Walker screwed up his face with disdain. “No, that’s preposterous.”

  Boucher gathered his folders and removed a set of photographs not unlike the ones on Walker’s desk. He tapped the mark tattooed on Monroe’s bicep, drawing attention toward the fist-and-lightning lockup. “Are you sure? Because the report states that Monroe’s tattoo had faded into his skin—skin that had once contained enhanced blood, which should have kept it bright. Especially if freshly inscribed by the killer.”

  Boucher steepled his fingers and furrowed his brow in thought. “That implies the Soldier had to have been rocking that logo for longer than a month, even several. Ergo, the killer didn’t apply it to frame the man. It was there long before his murder.”

  “I knew Joe. He had nothing to do with that pack of wolves at the Human Front.”

  Boucher let the chair squeak as he scooted closer to the table. “I’m sorry, but I gotta say the evidence looks pretty damning.”

  “Evidence can be faked, especially by those familiar with powers.”

  “Are you saying a Power did this, looking to frame Joe because of his ties to the Front? Or are you suggesting an anti-Powers agent familiar with Joe’s powers tried to position him as a traitor?”

  Walker massaged his head, which had begun to throb. “I don’t know. We need time to answer those questions.”

  “‘We’? As I understand it, Detective Walker, you’ve been pulled from the case.”

  “The royal ‘we.’ As in ‘we, the precinct.’”

  Boucher flipped through his notebook. “Why exactly were you pulled from the case, Detective? Because of a personal connection to the deceased? Is someone afraid that your shared history will reveal certain … truths?”

  “You’re reaching. Joe was my friend; his death affected me on an emotional level. We decided it was best for the investigation if I recuse myself.”

  “‘We’ again. You and the captain? Your partner, Detective—”

  “Don’t—”

  A knock at the door interrupted the heated interrogation. A moment later, Deena pulled it open and stepped inside, Corbin Kirk following close behind. “Hey, Walker? We got a list of possible suspects here, and I know you’re off the case, but…” They each carried a sheaf of folders, and Kirk balanced a mobile tablet atop his pile. Deena held a printout in her hands, initially waving it to grab Walker’s attention, but trailed off when she caught sight of the man sitting across from her partner.

  “Oh,” she whispered. Her face reddened, and for the first time in his life, Walker experienced what it meant to be in a room with a flustered, tongue-tied Deena Pilgrim. She hastily shoved her document into Kirk’s pile, jostling the tablet and forcing him to juggle for his life.

  Boucher got to his feet and stepped toward the door. The edges of his mouth curled up with pleasure. Slowly, a smile extended out from his lips, gradually widening the sides of both cheeks. He reached for Deena but thought better of it after a moment and quickly slid his hands into his pockets. He stood there, taking Deena in as she did her best to find her tongue.

  Walker gathered his things and edged around Deena toward the door. Confused, Kirk’s eyes darted between the partners and with the faint shadow of a frown, Walker beckoned for the rookie to join him outside.

  “Come on, Kirk. Let’s work your list.”

  Flustered and confused, Kirk glanced at Pilgrim. “But you’re off the case? They told me you were—”

  “Move, Kirk.”

  “But I’d like to work with Detective Pilg—”

  “Read the room, rookie.” The two cops exited the room, and as they departed, Boucher moved toward Deena and broke the silence. Walker lingered for a moment, hand on the doorknob, gauging the atmosphere before leaving the room.

  “Hello, Deena,” Boucher said, voice thick with emotion.

  “Aaron? Is that … what … what are you doing here?”

  They shuffled closer and, with clumsy movement, took one other in a familiar embrace. Walker frowned again. The guilt returned, slugging him in the gut. As he closed the door, he knew a time was coming where Detective Christian Walker—formerly Diamond, formerly Blue Streak and Gora—would have to dig into secrets to solve this case. Most importantly, though, he’d need to offer full transparency to support his partner—and possibly protect her from the sordid past.

  4

  November. Twelve years ago.

  Thursday afternoon. 4:05 P.M.

  Leaves fell, lining the street with a multicolored blanket of crimson and gold. A chill had come over the last few days, settling across Atlanta like an unwelcome guest. It caressed each window with a layer of frost. North of the city, where elegant homes kissed woodland, a phalanx of automobiles converged on an understated Tudor situated in well-to-do Tuxedo Park. Wheels crackling through leafy carpets, they arranged themselves in a horseshoe around a well-manicured circular drive. Guests emerged in weather wear—smart jackets and coats, leather gloves, and expensive scarves. They greeted one another and angled toward the door, drawn by smells wafting from inside the Pilgrim home.

  Ablaze in light and sound, the Pilgrim household had been carefully arranged for a night of football and fun. Salty treats perched on available end tables, and televisions presented the day’s games from every conceivable angle. Guests lingered in the kitchen, milling about the granite island on which platters had been laid containing meats and cheeses, paired alongside bottles of reds, whites, and ambers. The man of the house laughed uproariously in the family room, handing out cigars from the comfort of a leather recliner. Detective Waldo Pilgrim wore a Falcons jersey over faded jeans, a counterpoint to the tastefully attired guests dressed in designer sweaters, sport coats, or dress shirts. Deena regretfully skirted the circle of men and the Packers-Lions game—she’d been a card-carrying member of Falcons Nation for years, and any other day, she’d trade dirty jokes and cadge beer from her dad’s cronies. Today, however, she had a mission.

  Today, Deena Pilgrim was on point.

  Breezing past a throng of babbling Atlanta cougars, Deena veered to the right and headed toward
the door. Her journey to the foyer had taken her past recognizable faces—several of which had covered national magazines. Her father, whom she idolized, had risen through the ranks of Atlanta’s Powers Homicide Division, on a first-name basis with the deputy mayor and several notable masked heroes. Most days, Deena found herself in awe of Waldo. He’d engendered a sphere of influence—most of tonight’s guests having arrived in luxury automobiles; other having swooped from above, carried in on brisk, Atlanta winds. She wanted for little, Waldo providing more than his share on a detective’s salary. They had clothes, toys, vacations, and a gardener. Her mother barely lifted a finger, relinquishing control of the housework and cooking to a team of dedicated Cubans.

  More than that, though, Deena admired what her father did for a living. The toys were nice, but the detective work—being a cop, righting wrongs—that appealed to her on an entirely different level. She asked questions, begged Dad to recount the day’s events and tell her his war stories. She soaked it all in, as much as she could, and hoped one day to follow in his footsteps. As much as she’d wanted anything before today, Deena Pilgrim wanted to be a cop.

  Why, then, Deena wondered, did Mom act like she hated it? Why did she have to be a bitch all the time? Maybe it’s a cop’s wife thing. Once I bag Aaron, you won’t catch me acting that way. No chance in hell. But then, hopefully, we’ll be in the trenches together. Working side-by-side.

  She loitered in the foyer, glancing out at the pebbled driveway. Anxious, she grabbed a jacket and hurried down the porch. She fished a pair of earbuds out of her pocket and cycled through a playlist, listening to music as she waited for Aaron’s arrival. She knew he was coming—she’d checked to make sure. But, truthfully, she’d already known; there hadn’t been a Pilgrim event for the last six years that the Bouchers did not attend.

  Muffled noise caught her attention, echoing from the south. Fighting of some kind, a clash above the clouds. Tinny claps of thunder resounded in the distance. It sounded like a fight; it might have been an explosion. Deena couldn’t be sure. Cops and costumes drifted out to the porch, straining their necks to see what might be happening. None of them left, however, choosing to stay rather than check out the source of the thunder. All of them were loath, no doubt, to stray far from the Pilgrims’ food or drink.

  Fuck, Deena thought. I’d be off like a rocket. She’d asked Dad to take her for a ride-along, like a “take your daughter to work” thing, but the Homicide Division frowned on detectives dragging family members into active crime scenes. Soon, though. I’m headed to college, deciding shit for myself. What to think, what to eat, what to be. Anything I want. Especially a cop.

  She sat on the curb, watching kids maul her yard—they belonged to Waldo’s friends, left to their own devices as their parents drank and smoked. None were Deena’s age; only Aaron, slightly older, who had yet to arrive. Deena’s brother was away; he lived in California, having moved there for a girl and a job. She folded both arms across her knees. “Come on…” She tapped her fingers, keeping time to the rhythm as the clock crept closer to five. Where are you, Aaron?

  As if on a cue, a sedan rolled down her street and turned into the Pilgrims’ drive, coming to rest at the willow near the curb. Her heart surged to see the familiar sight of the Bouchers’ car. Deena’s stomach burbled; she was nervous. As she battled a sudden infestation of stomach butterflies, a kindly gentleman opened the sedan’s driver’s-side door. He winked at Deena as he stepped around the car, offering an arm to a tastefully dressed matron exiting the passenger’s door along with several pies. They tottered up the driveway, responding to greetings from the porch with beaming, rosy cheeks. The man, in his late fifties, was dressed in a comfortable houndstooth jacket beneath a snug fleece overcoat. A dashing homburg balanced atop his head at a jaunty angle, threatening to topple to the ground. His wife, dressed in an ermine coat, strode past her husband and mounted the steps, whisking off a hat while doling kisses and hugs to those she encountered along the way. Her husband pumped several hands and then continued on to join his wife. Deena’s body tensed with expectation, angling back to the sedan to spy the man to whom she hoped to give her heart … along with any other parts he desired.

  But to Deena’s chagrin, Aaron Boucher was nowhere to be found.

  They’d met at a family barbecue, before Aaron had entered the police academy. Tall, athletic, bright, and sarcastic, he’d struck up an easy rapport with the opinionated ball of spunk clad in shorts and a belly shirt. Their parents had been longtime friends: Judge Kenneth Boucher tirelessly worked with Waldo Pilgrim to put away the worst criminals that Atlanta had to offer. Their moms belonged to the same charities, and Deena’s brother had played against Aaron’s cousins in JV basketball. Choosing to abstain from the afternoon’s traditional games and sports, Aaron had located a secluded pond where they could splash and horse around in platonic, good-natured fashion. They’d dug into stolen snacks as he briefed her on the history of rock—a passion of Aaron’s, as were most types of music. It had been a fun, memorable day.

  Only Deena hadn’t wanted it to be so platonic. Deena had to admit, she’d developed something of a crush on Aaron Boucher.

  Truthfully, this was new territory for Deena. Tomboyish, outspoken, she didn’t fit the picture of the lovelorn wallflower. Deena Pilgrim took what she wanted and made her intentions clear to the chosen target. So why all the anxiety? she wondered. What is it about Aaron Boucher that turns me into an idiot?

  Part of it had to do with the way he treated her—as an equal, intellectually and emotionally. They shared passions, discussed goals. He knew what she thought about school and her limited social circle; she knew how he felt about Nine MM’s second album and could regurgitate his treatise on the Conspiracy of Similar Chords Throughout the Music Industry. Treatise? More like a thesis. But Deena memorized it because it was important to Aaron. And he was important to her.

  Mostly, though, it had to do with their shared desire to become working detectives. Aaron felt that an undercurrent of graft had crippled the police department. He vowed—should he be given the chance—to be as honest a cop as there ever was. Sometimes he intimated that Waldo had dabbled in dirty deeds, tainting the Homicide Division, but Deena chalked that up to a naïveté that came with principles. Everything about Aaron, from his looks to his fervor, made her want to spend time with him. She understood what it meant to covet that badge, just as he did. And he—unlike Waldo and her father’s colleagues and cronies—was willing to share that world with her. That’s why Aaron, unlike any man before, made Deena feel the way that she did. That’s why she dug him, because of their mutual connection and interests. Also? I want to fuck him all the time have his awesome babies spend our every minute fighting crime and sucking face.

  I mean, is that too much to ask for?

  Look, she explained to the universe, it isn’t just about the sex. Deena, at eighteen, had notched several dalliances on her bedpost—well, her first had been a notch on a locker room wall (the less said to the universe about that experience, the better). She’d been with guys, but guys in her school were dude-bros, morons, or—worse—weak in a sensitive, nice-guy way. This … what she felt for Aaron … she mooned over his stupid face when he went on about the Aquachords or Miranda rights. Despite the fact that she was still in school, Aaron already treated Deena like an equal. Like a partner. He’d given her a passport into his world.

  And now, she yearned, I want to guide him into mine. Wind fluttered through her hair, jangling earrings and shivering her skin. The ground trembled; a corona of yellow light appeared in the distance, encouraging her to look away. After a moment, a figure soared through it, dragging clouds in its wake. The front door opened, and Deena’s mother stepped out, sucking a drag from an ever-present cigarette.

  “Deena,” she demanded. “Help me set the napkin rings. Your father will never let me live it down if we don’t use your grandmother’s silver rings.”

  “When is Aaron coming?”

&nbs
p; Her mother arched an eyebrow. “He didn’t come with Ken and Eveline? Who could tell amid the parade of moral turpitude that has descended on my King James living room set?” The last slipped from her tongue with a disapproving cluck. Mom was at the five-drink mark; too soon for insubordination, just at the level of biting sarcasm. “Chop-chop. Dinner in ten, rings or no.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the horde of dignitaries, police luminaries, and celebrity guests settled around the dining room table. A feast had been laid, comprised of family standards—deep-fried turkey with Vidalia onions and chunky gravy, cranberry-walnut compote, and cheesy grits—along with nods to those of Italian heritage intermingled within the group: pepper-and-beef lasagna, shitake mushroom bruschetta, and a homemade manicotti prepared by the deputy mayor’s wife. Deena was seated close to her father—between Judge Boucher and a drunk young man named Harley Cohen, rumored to be inventing anti-Powers technology for the FBI. Cohen absently pawed at Deena’s leg, and she cheerfully set his hand aside each time. She kept an eye glued to the door, halfheartedly listening to breakdowns of the day’s games (Lions won, Cowboys lost), perking up slightly when Waldo launched into an alcohol-soaked diatribe regarding Atlanta’s criminal element.

  “Thing about these murders,” he mouthed off to the deputy mayor and the judge, “isn’t about motive, but—”

  “Dear,” Deena’s mother acidly ventured from across the table, “let’s allow our guests to enjoy this delicious meal sans cops and robbers.”

  Waldo chuckled in reply. “How do you know it’s delicious? You didn’t cook it.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Hey! Get the Cubans out here. They’re the ones … they…” He stifled a belch as his guests ignored the awkwardness. Someone handed him a drink. It might have been the judge; it might have been Deena.