“Cops only,” McPhee added, eyes giving Jill’s leather-clad body the once-over.
“See, that's funny.” Jill pulled up the chair opposite the two suspects but didn't yet sit. “Way I heard? You weren't that forthcoming the last time the cops talked to you.”
“Cause the one that questioned us was a bitch,” Harper spat.
“Sexist as well as racist.” Jill pursed her lips with a nod. “Not that surprising.”
“You know what Downtown's gonna think when it finds out one of its precincts is working with the vigilante?” McPhee asked.
“Considering Downtown tends to look the other way when cops kill unarmed kids,” Jill shot back with a shrug, “I was hoping they'd just kinda... ignore all this. And while we’re on the subject of vigilantes… know anything about the other guy who dropped in on me in that alley?”
Neither suspect had anything to say to that, disgust written all over their faces, even as certain movements caused them physical pain. McPhee reached up to run a broad hand over the back of his neck, cringing when the base of his skull throbbed against his touch. Harper shook his head and pressed his palm against his chest. The two men really needed to see a doctor, but explaining how they suffered their respective injuries would probably prove tricky.
Once tired of the silence, Jill smirked. “Didn’t think so. But see, kidnapping a high-ranking BPD official? I don't think they can ignore that.”
Harper snarled. “That damn snitch got what he deserved.”
“Just like Devin Buckner got what he deserved?” Jill asked, finally lowering herself into the chair. She briefly considered trying the infrared eye trick she had used in the other room, but Harper and McPhee had their eyes closed half the time. “See, doing what you did to Colonel Downs? That's where you really messed up. Now the DA's gonna have your heads. Especially after that stunt at the hospital.”
The two men exchanged a glance that was halfway between confusion and dread. Jill fought back the urge to smile, knowing the information she had withheld from the brain trusts in the other room would have come in more handy with these two simpletons. As usual, her gut instinct was correct.
“Oh, you didn't hear?” she teased. “Someone tried to kill Downs in his hospital bed.”
“That wasn't us.” McPhee was almost immediate in his denial.
“Well, seeing as how you're the ones who put him in the hospital in the first place...” Jill pushed herself out of the chair, wandering over to the other side of the table and hovering over the two suspects. It didn't take as much to rattle them has it had Carter and Stevenson, which only further confirmed Jill's suspicion of the hierarchy of their little cabal.
“Look, freak,” Harper spoke so viciously that spittle flew from his tongue, “we got nothin' to do with that.”
“I don't believe you,” Jill said with a shrug before heading back toward the door and grabbing the knob. Before she turned it, though, she took one more look at the two cops reeling in physical agony, trying desperately to mask their pain with a veneer of anger. Knowing what she knew about these two, though, the anger was likely genuine, long-standing, and the reason they became cops in the first place.
“But to be perfectly honest?” she added, yanking open the door. “I'm the least of your worries right now.”
“And we’re the least of yours,” McPhee shot back in a surprising moment of bravado. Harper scowled at him, but McPhee only straightened his posture and sucked in a deep breath. “You’re nothing special. You think you’re the only freak in this town?”
Jill frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Can it, Freddie,” Harper hissed.
“See, that vanishing act we pulled?” McPhee pressed on, ignoring his partner. “We had help. And it wasn’t anyone from the department.”
Jill took the chair opposite the other two cops, slinging it around and straddling the seat. “Who? The guy in the mask?”
“Don’t know his name.” McPhee shrugged. “He wears all black, just like you. Head to toe. Strong, fast… not big on talking. He just… let us out and sent us on our way.”
“And you trusted him?” Jill shook her head, trying to ignore the dread churning in her gut. “How did you know he wouldn’t try to kill you?”
“Told us to consider it our bail,” McPhee said with a shrug.
“So… you’re telling me a masked vigilante sprung you out of Holding,” Jill summarized, “and managed to avoid all manner of detection in the process.”
“Basically.”
If that was true -- and Jill couldn’t decide if she believed the battered officer or not -- then things were about to get even more complicated. Was her attacker another vigilante in this city? This one seemingly on the side of the officers accused of killing Devin Buckner. David Gregor’s words from the other day echoed in Jill’s head again, and if he was behind this, then his definition of helping was far different from hers.
But mostly, she needed to track down that other vigilante. She needed to know who he was, what his motives were, and -- most importantly -- why he appeared to be just as strong and resilient as her. Jill’s gut rumbled at the implication, and she hoped against hope that her instinct on this was wrong.
CHAPTER 35
It took a full hour before Jill was able to change out of her black leather and into something resembling normal clothes, partly because she couldn't find anywhere in the Seventh Precinct with enough privacy to guarantee no one would walk in on her. Not that modesty was much of an issue with her, but if someone who didn't already know her secret stumbled into the bathroom or the locker room while she was still at least partially leather-clad and hadn't yet had the chance to apply her skin graft... well, that was a surprise from which she wanted to spare others.
Ultimately, Jill wound up returning to her apartment -- and she was far too adept at slipping off the fire escape and into the window to her bedroom. After shedding both the leather and the armor, Jill opted for a black t-shirt with the small Orioles logo on the left sleeve and a pair of jeans. Fortunate that her captain was not much of a dress code stickler, Jill pulled her shoulder-length brown hair into a tight ponytail before starting the slow process of applying the skin graft.
The graft had been a gift from Joel Freeman, her superior at the Army, after her discharge. He had been a good man -- before betraying her, anyway -- but such outward gestures were unlike him. Still, she had to laugh at the memory of the note he had scribbled along with the gift, over how he had explained that the skin graft was so Jill didn't go around scaring everyone like some feminist Terminator. The sad part was, before that newspaper writer coined the name Bounty, “feminist Terminator” was the closest thing Jill got to having a code name.
As skin grafts went, this one was second to none. When Jill applied it correctly, it looked as if her face was no different than anyone else's. One of the last remaining pieces of tech courtesy of Dr. Trent Roberts, the skin graft also gave her left eye the same green hue as her right. The skin tone matched perfectly, and the graft itself extended far enough that the light scarring where metal met skin was no longer visible. At first, applying the graft had been a pain in the ass, but the months and years had allowed Jill to apply it without looking into a mirror half the time.
Her mind ran with the idea that there might be another vigilante in the city, and that this one was helping the four officers. She didn’t know whether to believe it, and she also didn’t know whether to inform the others. So for right now, Jill decided she was better off sticking with what they did know. They could deal in hypotheticals later.
As soon as the elevator doors opened to drop Jill off at the Homicide floor, she called out: “Murder board, status update!”
By the time Jill got to the white dry-erase board, Detectives Watson and Stevens had already beaten her to the punch. Off her quizzical glare, Stevens hitched up his pants. “Your boy's at the morgue, gettin' the ballistics results from J.”
Jill nodded once. “I'd mock him fo
r not checking in, but that'd make me a hypocrite. Where are we?”
“Forensics confirmed that the van we found is the one that was used the morning of the murder,” Watson explained, grabbing the red marker and using the end of it to point at all the different bullet points outlined on the whiteboard. “We've found traces of Buckner's DNA in the rear compartment, along with the colonel’s, and the GPS data from the 'black box' told us everything else.”
“What about DNA from our suspects?” Jill asked.
“Negatory,” Stevens conceded. “But the fact that you found them takin' the good Colonel for a ride's a pretty nice consolation prize, right?”
“Yeah, like busting Capone for tax evasion,” Jill muttered with a roll of her eyes. The elevator dinged again, and when Jill glanced over her shoulder, she saw Ramon stepping out of the car and making a beeline for their makeshift gathering by her desk. He waved a piece of paper above his head before stopping and wearing the same shit-eating grin he always wore when he was about to share some case-breaking news.
“Spill, Ramon,” Jill ordered with a sideways grin.
“First of all,” Ramon glanced at Stevens, “J says you might wanna hold off until payday to take her out for drinks, cause she's gonna drink you under the table.”
Stevens scoffed and slipped his thumbs into the front belt loops of his pants. “We'll see about that.”
“Second,” Ramon gulped in a deep breath, as if he had just ran from the parking lot, “Ballistics came back, the bullet came from Carter's gun.”
Stevens frowned and stared at the surveillance still tacked onto the board, the one that showed a man much broader than Carter pulling the trigger. “But that ain't Carter.”
“Doesn't matter, we got probable cause.” Jill jotted down the new information on the white board before capping her marker. “Where are we on Downs’ attacker at the hospital?”
Watson glanced down at the file folder in his hand. “Security cam footage came up empty, but we’re running financials on every doctor and nurse who works on that floor. If someone got paid to mess with the colonel’s dosage, we’ll find out.”
“Good.” Jill grabbed the receiver from her desk phone, pressing a button before waiting. “Hey, Brian, is Ramona there?”
“She's in a meeting with the mayor. Why?”
“Because we're ready to file charges.”
CHAPTER 36
Having gotten off the phone with the DA’s office, Jill decided she needed a jolt of caffeine. She actually wanted something stronger, but seeing as how she was still on the clock, coffee would have to do. She smiled to herself when she walked into the break room and saw Ramon at one of the high-top circular tables, chatting with the teenager he had befriended a few days prior. Mitch had just lost her grandfather to a murder, and it appeared Ramon was the only one who gave a damn.
Which was an issue, because the murder happened in someone else’s jurisdiction. She made a note to have a chat with the captain over there when this was all over, give him hell for pulling a detective from another precinct while they were in the middle of a case of their own.
Adding two spoonfuls of sugar to her coffee, Jill couldn’t help but overhear the conversation the two were having.
“Paulson ain’t been back since the day Grampy was killed,” Mitch almost whispered with a shrug that did little to hide the disappointment she was trying not to show.
“Has anyone been over there?” Ramon asked.
Mitch shook her head. “Just uniforms bustin’ chops.”
Jill joined the pair, giving Mitch a soft grin before taking the first sip from her mug. Still too hot for her liking. One of these days, she would learn to wait a few minutes.
“I vaguely remember Paulson,” Jill mentioned, both hands wrapped lightly around her mug. “I think he was an officer back when my dad was Detective.”
Mitch clutched a mug of hot chocolate in her hands, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “Was he an ass then, too?”
“Pretty much.” Jill stirred her mug with one of those tiny wooden sticks that otherwise would've been good for nothing more than staking insect vampires. At least, that was what 9-year-old Brian Andersen would've said. His imagination had been quite vivid as a child, almost as if he had inherited some of their mother's creative vision. But the older Brian got, his creative instincts slowly died... and now, he lived in the same black-and-white world Jill did. If Jill was being honest with herself, she missed that side of her brother.
“Look,” Jill added, stealing a glance at Ramon, “I understand if you don't trust me.”
“Nah, you seem cool.” Mitch gave a one-shoulder smug and added a tiny marshmallow to her mug. “Ramon worships you, so...”
The male detective ducked his head as a hint of red crept over his cheeks, clearing his throat and taking a sip of coffee. Jill couldn't help but laugh at her partner, who at times was as much of a boy as he was a full-grown man. His boyish nature was endearing, because this was a job that hardened and jaded the best of them, and the longer he could keep his childish idealism, the better off both he and the precinct would be.
“He's just saying that cause he broke his habit of puking at crime scenes,” Jill teased, arching a brow when she brought her mug to her lips.
As expected, Mitch laughed. Ramon opened his mouth to object, but instead placed a hand on the teenager's shoulder and his smile turned from sheepish to genuine. “I think that's the first time you've laughed since we met.”
A brief silence fell among the three, and Jill couldn't help but feel the weight of Mitch's loss on her shoulders. She had never heard of Mitch or her grandfather before Ramon had mentioned them, but her partner's insistence on being there for Mitch, even as he was knee-deep in his own murder investigation, re-affirmed her belief that Captain Richards had saddled her with the best possible partner. Ramon was selfless as they came, but he wasn't afraid to stand up when it came down to it. That he stood up to Joel Freeman and slapped the cuffs on Jill's former commanding officer was as impressive as anything else she had seen from him. Managing to keep her secret this whole time was even more remarkable.
“I'm sorry the police are failing you,” Jill offered. “Both you and your grandfather deserve far better than what Detective Paulson has given you.”
“We're kinda used to it,” Mitch said with a shrug, pulling on the sleeve of the gray UCLA hoodie she had borrowed from Jorge. “Part of town we live in, cops don't do shit.”
“Still no excuse.” Jill took another sip. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“I heard about Devin,” Mitch muttered, staring at her still-steaming mug. “On the news. They sayin' he was a pothead, that he was a dropout.”
“If he was a dropout,” Ramon interjected with an edge to his voice, “why was he about to enroll at Morgan State?”
“And even if he was a dropout,” Jill added, “that doesn't justify what happened to him.”
Mitch's dark eyes rose to look into Jill's, and her heart broke at how much hurt and mistrust was etched onto the teenager's face. Mitch was far too young to be facing such realities. Unfortunately, in some parts of this city, hard lessons were taught early. “So it's true, then?”
Jill watched as the door to the break room swung open. She knew exactly what Mitch meant. “Yeah.”
Jill's posture straightened when she saw a well-dressed woman in her early fifties enter the break room, a dark gray pantsuit matching with the shoulder bag slung over her right arm. Her black hair was cut so close it was almost a crew cut, and her blue eyes were as icy as Jill had seen in a long while.
“Deputy Commissioner Baldwin,” Jill greeted as she stood.
“Detective Andersen?” Janet Baldwin arched a brow and lifted her chin, as if she were apprising Jill from below her nose.
“That's me.”
Mitch shot a questioning glance Ramon's way. The detective shook his head in response before tilting his head to the side. They both grabbed their mugs and slip
ped out of the door on the other side of the break room, giving Jill and the deputy commissioner the room to themselves. As soon as the door shut, Baldwin rested her shoulder bag on the circle table and folded her arms over her chest. “I hear Jeff is gonna be okay.”
“Appears so,” Jill chose her words carefully, uneasy as to why Baltimore's second-in-command would be paying her a visit. “Upgraded to fair condition.”
“I'm glad to hear that.” Baldwin sighed. “But you should know… he won't be pressing charges.”
Jill frowned in a mixture of confusion and anger. “What?”
“No charges,” Baldwin repeated.
“That... no, that makes no sense,” Jill insisted. “His intel helped us break this case. Screwed up as it sounds, what they did to him was our second big break. The colonel's testimony could be key in putting those four behind bars.”
“It would also jeopardize his career.”
“Funny.” Jill folded her arms over her chest and approached Baldwin, narrowing her gaze. “That didn't seem to be an issue for him before.”
“That was before he was almost killed.”
“Did your pet lawyer get to him, too?”
Baldwin frowned. “Who?”
“Lori Taylor?” Jill shook her head. “Stormed in here to break out the officers, saying she was on the BPD’s payroll.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Detective.” Baldwin’s posture tensed even more, as if that were even possible. “I’ve met every lawyer who represents this department, and Lori Taylor is not one of them.”
Well, wasn’t that something… Jill studied the deputy commissioner's body language: the tense posture, the hunched shoulders, the constant need to lift her chin whenever their eyes met. Something tugged at Jill's gut, a sensation she often had when she was on the verge of a big break or when she found herself in a situation that didn't feel right. This felt like it had the potential to be both of those things, and Jill pursed her lips with a single nod.
Behind the Badge Page 13
