Behind the Mask

by J. D. Cunegan

  "Can we really trust anything she told Ramon?" she blurted out before downing the rest of her coffee. "We know how dark this port is in the middle of the night. If everyone was wearing black, and the only lights here are the ones CSU brought, how the hell does she know she saw what she saw? And for that matter, how do we know she's not using that to her advantage to steer us somewhere else?"

  "What?" Watson shook his head. "Are you trying to insinuate Jill had something to do with this? Are you really hinting at that?"

  "C'mon," Ramon interjected, sidestepping his sister and joining the other two detectives. "We all know I'm not exactly Jill's biggest fan lately, but... she would never do this. She would never kill. Not on purpose."

  Blankenship straightened her posture and yanked open the door to her black Charger. "Time was, people said the same about her father."

  With that, she sank herself into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut as her phone buzzed. She knew who it was at this early hour, and he was honestly the last person she wanted to talk to... but if he beckoned, she had to come calling.

  Great, one more annoyance. This was gonna be a bad day.

  Watson opened his mouth to respond, but the roar of the engine interrupted him. The tires squealed as the Charger backed away from the crime scene, eventually turning back onto the main road leading back to the Inner Harbor and the rest of downtown. The three male detectives stared at each other in befuddled silence before Watson glanced back in the direction of the car, watching its tail lights growing smaller and smaller before they disappeared in a right turn.

  "She's takin' this more personal than even you, Ramon," Earl said with a shake of his head.

  "I should have ID by midday," Juanita announced, joining the detectives. "Maybe by then, you can all get back to your jobs and worry less about gossiping over who is or isn't mad at Jill."

  CHAPTER 5

  IF NOTHING ELSE, CROSS-continental flights were great for multitasking.

  David Gregor was on his way to Paris in order to finalize a business transaction with a French clean energy firm—one that promised to net Gregor Enterprises more than $20 billion over the next five years and allow the mogul to open a solar manufacturing plant in Montgomery County. Several older factories had closed over the past two decades, and Gregor wanted to make sure there were still jobs available in the greater Baltimore area. This was a deal that had been in the works for almost six years, and now that Gregor finally had Congressional blessing, he was anxious to sign the contract.

  The fallout from Devin Buckner's murder, and the craze surrounding the vigilante, made now seem like just as good a time as any for Gregor to make his overseas trip. Plans were already in motion, steps being taken care of in his absence, and even as he lounged in his seat, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean thousands of feet below, a video feed forwarded to him was front and center in his mind. Not that the man sitting across from him with the Moleskin notepad and digital voice recorder needed to know that.

  The man removed his thin-rim glasses and pursed his lips. "The timing of this deal is a bit strange, David. Why now?"

  Patrick Mather had been with the Baltimore Sun for nearly three full decades, and in that time, he had turned into one of the paper's most trusted investigative voices. He also had a cozy relationship with Gregor, so whenever the paper wanted access that went beyond the occasional piece looking into Gregor Enterprises' practices, Mather was the man they called. He was wire thin—a lifetime of tennis and marathon running—and his dark eyes almost always held a fierce curiosity. His profession aside, Gregor considered Mather a good man.

  So rather than lash out like he might against a reporter with whom he wasn't quite as familiar, Gregor instead grinned and rested his left ankle on his right knee.

  "There are a lot of moving pieces when working on these international deals, Patrick," he explained. "You know that as well as anyone. There were plenty of legal hoops to jump through, not just on my end, but also in Paris."

  "You have the support of the current administration," Mather added without pause. "How do you think the incoming administration would affect things?"

  Gregor bristled; he had done everything he could to this point to stay out of the current political climate. He had never been shy about his political leanings—even going so far as to divulge every donation he ever made when others of his ilk did everything they could to keep that sort of thing secret—but with the way things were unfolding, he didn't see the benefit. Though he respected the Democratic nominee, Gregor disagreed with her on several fronts and couldn't see himself supporting her. Then again, the Republican candidate was so brazen, so ill-prepared in every sense, that he could never offer support.

  Gregor knew the Republican nominee personally—and much like the other actual billionaires, Gregor could not stand the man. The idea of that man coming even this close to the White House was enough to turn Gregor's stomach. In fact, he had warned anyone who would listen during the primary race. Clearly, his pleas had fallen on deaf ears. Gregor flexed his hands into fists before unfurling his fingers and heaving an exasperated sigh.

  "In a perfect world, that would affect nothing," he answered.

  "Now, matters a little closer to home," Mather began.

  "This is close to home," Gregor interrupted. "This deal will, over the next five years, result in an influx of more than 20,000 new jobs for Baltimore and its surrounding counties—you can fact check that if you'd like. But the fact of the matter is... clean energy is the way of the future, whether Congress and the oil companies want to believe it or not. And we need to train people to do the jobs that come with creating clean energy. Wind farms, solar panels, corporate and residential needs. Gregor Enterprises chooses to accept a reality that no one else does, and in the process, I want to give the BWI area a big economic boost."

  Mather arched a brow. "That's gotta be a massive expense."

  "You say expense." Gregor reached for the glass to his left, sipping on the amber liquid and watching the ocean below. "I prefer to think of it as an investment. One that will be returned to me more than tenfold. Plus, this investment will benefit everyone involved in this merger, and the local economy will see a boom unlike anything we've seen in decades. Why do you think I have the governor's support?"

  Mather chuckled and shook his head. "You sure you're a conservative?"

  "I am." A coy grin crept onto Gregor's face. "All that means is I think the private sector is better suited to handle these issues than the federal government."

  "Fair enough." Mather glanced out the window and clicked his pen. This would be his first time traveling overseas for a story since the time he was sent to Kuwait during Desert Storm. Fortunately, a private jet provided a smoother, less stomach-churning ride than the back of a military supply plane, and Mather was still thinking back on the delightful lunch the plane's staff had provided for him. His editor wouldn't care for the expense report, but Mather would cross that bridge when he got there. "What are your thoughts on the vigilante outing herself?"

  "I trust the police will handle that as they see fit," Gregor answered almost immediately, offering a tight-lipped smile that made it clear he would say nothing else on the matter. Truth was, Gregor had plenty to say—but he couldn't actually say any of it without also revealing a lot of his less savory deals. Project Fusion, in particular, was the sort of thing that need not see the light of day, unless the reporter sitting across from him wanted to see the body count multiply in the span of a week. Gregor's personal ties to the woman known as Bounty were also not for the public record, despite what First Amendment advocates would argue.

  Mather arched a brow again. "Even though they couldn't handle the murder of a teenager?"

  "There is a difference between 'couldn't' and 'wouldn't'," Gregor insisted before polishing off the rest of his drink and grabbing a nearby tablet. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to host a video conference. This shouldn't take too long."

  Disappearing into the ba
ck of the plane, Gregor flipped on the video conference app on his tablet and was immediately greeted with Lori Taylor's glare. He smiled on reflex, because he honestly thought whatever was perturbing her this time was humorous. She worried far more than Gregor did, and he had a feeling this latest grievance was going to be aired, whether he wanted to hear it or not. He tried to tell himself Lori's stress level came from being a proverbial double agent, that she was constantly watching over her shoulder to make sure the BPD wasn't there.

  "And how is our house guest?" he asked.

  "Annoying as hell," Lori grumbled. "Honestly, do we have to keep him here? And does he have to be conscious?"

  "It's only for a week, Lori," Gregor said, his smile brightening when her eyes narrowed. "And yes, we need him."

  "But why? I liked Joel Freeman a lot better when he was still behind bars."

  "We've talked about this," Gregor said, his voice lowering as he glanced over his shoulder. "Freeman is a liability in prison."

  Lori rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah... he stays in jail, Andersen could go after him, and since he's still fond of the bitch..."

  "Lori." Gregor shook his head. "I don't care about his affinity for Andersen. I care about the fact that he has information she's going to want now that she's encountered the other vigilante."

  "And he didn't kill her why, exactly? I thought you said this guy was good."

  "He is. But you keep making the mistake of underestimating her."

  "Oh, please." There was that trademark eyeroll again. "She's nothing more than a damaged, obsessed daddy's girl."

  "And that's part of what makes her dangerous." Gregor glanced over his shoulder again. "And desperate. You saw what she did a few weeks ago. If that's not desperate, I don't know what is. And fact is, even if the cops do bring her in, what are they going to do with her? They can't beat her up. They can't charge her with anything, not with her brother in the DA's office. Hell, for all we know, half of them are still sympathetic to her."

  "So... what? We let her rot on her own?"

  "Not exactly." A knowing grin crept onto Gregor's face. "I'll be back from Paris next week. Once I return, we can truly get things rolling. And trust me when I say you will love the next part of this plan."

  "Are you going to share this plan with me, David?"

  "I already have." The smile grew. "On your laptop, there's a folder labeled Phase Two. Everything you need to know is in there. Now... have you called Dr. Lo?"

  If possible, the look of disapproval and annoyance on Lori's face only deepened. She narrowed her eyes as she peered into her device's camera, pursing her lips and shaking her head ever so slightly. She then chewed her lower lip and glanced over her shoulder before bringing the device closer to her face. "I did. He's expecting you by the end of the week."

  "Excellent."

  "I hope you know what you're doing, David."

  "I always do, my love." One more glance over Gregor's shoulder. "Listen, I have to get back to my interview. Try not to let Freeman annoy you too much, okay?"

  Ending the video call without waiting for a response, Gregor put the device into sleep mode before entering the main passenger cabin again. A slight bit of turbulence rocked the jet, but it was over as quickly as it started. Gregor returned to his seat with an affable smile, noting how his glass had been refilled in his absence. Another glass of amber liquid sat next to Mather, who was typing away on his laptop.

  "My apologies," the mogul greeted, straightening the lapel of his blazer. "I'm afraid I'm multitasking more than usual today."

  "That's alright," Mather said as he closed his laptop and grabbed the notepad again. "Just one more question... what do you make of the fact that you’re seemingly always on the FBI’s radar?"

  CHAPTER 6

  BRIAN ANDERSEN WASN't sure exactly when stubble turned into a full-blown beard, but he had cleared that hurdle. Not that he was punctual with a razor in the first place, but in the two weeks since the district attorney was assassinated on live television, the Baltimore Police Department found itself in upheaval, and his sister revealed herself as a lawless vigilante, he had not so much as touched a blade. Sleep was almost as elusive, and the bags under Brian's eyes were as noticeable as the near-constant rumbling in his stomach. Brian was hungry—starving, even—yet the mere thought of food nearly triggered his gag reflex.

  It wasn't that Brian was unaccustomed to struggle. The fact that he spent his days in a wheelchair, the result of a car accident he had suffered just months after losing his mother, finding out his father was a serial killer, and watching his sister jet off to Iraq with a rifle and fatigues, was testament to that. But things had been better until recently. His career as Baltimore's Assistant District Attorney was fulfilling in ways he had never expected. He had managed to patch things up with Jill, in spite of the years and the anger and the execution of their father.

  But once Devin Buckner was killed, and four BPD officers were implicated, the proverbial snowball began barreling down the hill. Every time Brian closed his eyes, he saw Ramona Parish's head exploding in a mess of blood, his former boss assassinated on live television after announcing charges against those officers. Every time he allowed his brain a moment's rest, he recalled pleading with his sister not to reveal her secret.

  That was the last conversation they’d had. Brian didn't know where Jill was, and he kept telling himself it was better that way. Maybe one night, he would actually believe that. He would never admit it out loud, but he missed her. He missed what they had managed to build in recent months.

  To Brian's surprise, the cops had not yet come calling. He was sure, once Jill's secret became public knowledge, that the police would be beating down his door in search of her. After all, she was a fugitive now. Though public sentiment was still on Jill's side—sixty-one percent of those polled by The Baltimore Sun approved of her presence—the truth was that she was a marked woman. Even as talented as she was, it was only a matter of time.

  The knock at the door to Brian's office barely registered, and he looked up to see one of the young clerks wandering in carrying a manila folder. He nodded his thanks when the clerk—a fresh-shaven law student named Dustin—set the folder down on his desk. Deposition in a high-profile money laundering case was coming in three days, and Brian still had to put the finishing touches on the city's case. Unfortunately, Baltimore's crooked weren't considerate about waiting until his life stopped falling apart before returning to their wicked ways.

  "There's everything you asked for," Dustin said with a nod. "Including transcripts of those tapes the police gave us."

  "Thank you, Dustin." Brian smiled, though the strain on his muscles made it clear how forced it was. He scanned the documents within, pursing his lips. He had expected Dustin to leave his office, leave him to his solitude, and Brian had to bite back the urge to sigh when he noticed the presence in front of him wasn't leaving. "Is there something else?"

  "Are you going to do it?"

  Brian closed the folder with a sigh and sank into his chair with a shake of his head. Everyone had asked him that over the past week. The mayor had called for a special election to fill Ramona's seat, and some in the office were trying to convince Brian to run. Their reasons were sound, their support appreciated—but every time the topic came up, the rage built in the pit of Brian's stomach and he felt himself shaking.

  "Probably not."

  "I think you should." Dustin ducked his head when Brian shot him a glare. "I think you'd do a great job."

  "This town would never elect me." Brian shook his head and dug his fingers into the rubber wheels on his chair. "My father was a serial killer and my sister's a costumed vigilante. They're both disgraced cops. The attack ads practically write themselves."

  Besides, the authorities would eventually figure out that Brian knew about Jill's secret before her big reveal, which would make him an accessory to a crime. How could he serve as district attorney if, by the letter of the law, he was a criminal? Brian didn't
feel like a criminal, but he knew if city officials really wanted to pursue his sister as thoroughly as they could, that wouldn't matter. The last thing Baltimore needed was the embarrassment of a DA being led away in handcuffs.

  "They're not electing your family," Dustin argued. "They're electing you."

  Brian smiled, because he actually envied the clerk's optimism. Though DA wasn't typically a political position, the fact that the position was elected and not appointed meant Brian had to take things into consideration that most of this building's other employees never gave a second thought to. This wasn't simply a case of him being promoted to fill an emergency vacancy; he would have to convince his fellow Baltimoreans to give him the job... and given his baggage, recent and otherwise, Brian wasn't convinced they would.

  More to the point, he wasn't sure he wanted them to.

  "I appreciate the vote of confidence," Brian said. "Really. But... I'm not sure I'm the best man for the job."

  "Are you kidding?" The urgency in Dustin's tone caught Brian off-guard; the young clerk was always so soft-spoken. "Mr. Andersen, you and your sister are two of my biggest heroes." The clerk scratched at a spot on the side of his neck, glancing over his shoulder. "Everybody assumes I don't know what goes on in this town, cause I'm young and wide-eyed... I'm not optimistic out of ignorance, I choose to be this way."

  Brian blinked and cocked his head to the side. "Why?"

  "The same reason your sister puts on that costume every night." Dustin shrugged. "Look, Baltimore's not home for me the way it is for you or her. But I really like it here, and I'm a fan of anyone who works to make it a better place. Ramona was a hero to this city, Mr. Andersen. So is your sister. And so are you."