Masks (Out of the Box Book 9)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Fight,” I said, “present tense.” And when she looked up in mild surprise, I said, “I’ll get her a lawyer. I’ve got some good ones that I’m connected to. She won’t go down for this. We will get her out. She won’t rot in the Cube.” Even the mention of the Cube, thinking about Jamie being shoved into the old prison that I used to be warden of … it wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  “Then we’ll have fights yet to come,” Kyra said, still sounding pretty subdued.

  “Yeah, you’re lucky,” I said, looking away from her. “My mom and I used to fight all the time, too.” I stared at the crowds. They were still chanting Jamie’s superhero name. “Sometimes I wish she could yell at me one more time.”

  “Really?” Kyra asked.

  “Really,” I said, and meant it.

  “Kyra!” An African-American lady came rustling through the police, escorted by a cop. “Kyra!”

  “Clarice!” Kyra jumped up and hugged the lady tight. I could tell they were family by the way that Kyra defaulted to running to her for comfort in time of trouble. It was a sure tell of who you were really close to, that.

  Clarice hugged tight for a minute and then let her go, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was worried about you when all the news about your mom broke on the—but it doesn’t matter, you’re safe now.” She hugged Kyra tight again.

  “Clarice,” Kyra said, “this is Sienna Nealon.” She towed the lady over to me, and I watched the surprise in her eyes when she caught her first glimpse of me. “She helped my mom save me, and she says she’s going try and get Mom out.”

  I watched Clarice take a moment to compose herself before speaking. “I—you know that Jamie had nothing to do with any of—”

  “I know, “I said, and watched that hit the mark with Clarice. It was plain to me that this lady was deep in Jamie’s corner. “She got set up,” I said.

  “By who?” Clarice asked.

  “I …” I thought about that one for a minute. “I don’t know,” I finally lied. “But we’ll get them.”

  Kyra’s eyes were big, bigger than mine had been as a teenager. “Really? You will?”

  I watched her standby mom, Clarice, studying me to see how I answered. As it turned out, the words were tricky, because I already had a plan for how to deal with the person responsible for all this shit, but speaking too much of it aloud would be the surest way to see any plans I had undone. “We’ll get them,” I said coolly, trying to be reassuring, while keeping a stoic mask on tight. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  86.

  Jamie

  They’d taken her out through a crowd, the officer in the driver’s seat making apologies the whole way back to the precinct. Jamie had smiled at him, and nodded, and said, “I’d rather it be you than those FBI guys,” and she left it at that while the cop went on, talking about the good she’d done for Staten Island.

  They hadn’t put her in a jail jumpsuit when they brought her into the interrogation room, and they’d uncuffed her before they left her in there, alone, while they went off to file paperwork or whatever it was they were doing. “The FBI’s gonna come soon,” a cop promised her, still apologetic, when he stuck his head into the room a few minutes later. “You need anything while you wait? Coffee? Soda?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Jamie said. “Is my daughter all right?”

  “Your friend Clarice is with her,” the cop said, “and Sienna Nealon is hanging around. Doubt she’ll see any trouble for now.” And he left her alone again with the two-way mirror.

  She stared at herself, at the tangled mess that was her hair after a day’s work of trying to save her daughter. It was hard to believe it had only been a few hours she’d been on the run. “Feels like a year,” she said quietly, as the door clicked open again.

  “You got a visitor,” another cop said, like he was asking for permission. “This guy says he knows you.” He opened the door wide enough to reveal—

  “Jacob,” Jamie said, taking a step backward, “I mean … Mr. Penny.”

  He was looking slightly disheveled, his shirt still unbuttoned at that top button. “Ms. Barton,” he said, sliding into the room, his ever-present briefcase missing at last. “How are you?”

  The cop spoke up, interrupting her answer. “So you know this guy?”

  “He’s my … banker,” she finished lamely, and the cop gave her a puzzled look then shrugged and left, closing the door behind him.

  “Just your banker?” Penny asked, looking a little mischievous and slightly wistful all at once.

  “Well …” Jamie said, “I, uh … don’t know if you’ve heard …” She waved to indicate the holding room around them. “I might be in jail for a little while. Not sure if you want to … associate with someone like that.”

  “Yeah, it’d be a real pox on my reputation to associate with the Hero of Staten Island,” Penny said dryly. “I didn’t realize you were going to bolt from the room when I stepped out earlier—”

  “I was being called a terrorist on television.” She looked down.

  “No one in this town believes you’re a terrorist,” Penny said, shaking his head. “Sienna Nealon talked to the press, called the charges BS. The NYPD is keeping pretty quiet, but ‘people in the know’ have leaked like crazy to the media that this is all sounding pretty far-fetched. There are collections being taken up to help pay your legal bills.” He smiled. “It’s already raised several million just here on Staten Island. And I could be wrong … but I think Barton Designs might have gotten a fresh infusion of business this afternoon, at least, based on what I’ve heard from the talking heads.”

  Jamie did a double take, then felt the slight wave of happiness evaporate. “That’s … that’s nice of people—”

  “I think they just figured they ought to support their hero,” Penny said. “After all, someone’s paying that knucklehead Frost, so—”

  “It’s … sweet of them,” Jamie said, sighing as she made a gravity channel to draw up a chair so she could collapse in it; Penny blinked and almost jumped back in surprise. “But you know I don’t have the operating capital to fulfill the orders I already have, so …” She exhaled quietly. “I guess they’re just going to have to be disappointed.”

  “Not so fast,” Penny said, still smiling, “because I went over our findings—yours and mine—with our underwriting department, and, based on the fact that clearly something is badly amiss in your personal finances that is no fault of your own … they approved your loan extension—and additional credit.”

  Jamie felt a lightheaded sensation. “They … am I …” She looked down, thumping her knuckles against the chair. “Oh. Good. I am sitting down.”

  Penny laughed. “You are.” He waited a second. “I’ll help you untangle your finances. The bank is committed to helping you right this wrong that was done to you. You worry about fighting this fraud against your name … and we’ll take care of the rest of it, and hopefully … we’ll keep Barton Designs alive until you get this all behind you.”

  Jamie sat there, chin pressed against the knuckles of her left hand, breathing in the moment as the room seemed to spinning around her, like the world had when the helicopter was going down earlier. “Mr. Penny—”

  “Jacob.”

  “—Jacob,” she said, leaning hard on her hand, “I … I don’t know what to say. Other than thanks. Profusely. I feel like I should say ‘thank you’ over and over until the words lose all meaning.”

  “You could do that, but after they lost meaning it would be, uh, meaningless,” and he walked close to her. “I think most of us … seeing the terrible things that have happened to you, knowing how much of a hero you’ve been … I think we’re just glad we can do something to help you in return for all that you’ve done for us. I mean, Gravity Gal made us proud. She was there when we needed her—you should see the stories people are telling about her heroics, on every camera they can get, YouTube … You’re a real deal hero, Jamie, and you make us feel like … like mayb
e now we could be there for you when you need it.”

  Jamie closed her eyes, covering her mouth with her hand as the feelings welled up inside her. It took her a few minutes to compose herself, but when she opened them, she found Mr. Penny still waiting there.

  “You’ve helped save us,” he said finally. “Will you let us help you for a change?”

  87.

  Sienna

  I listened to Jamie’s visitor talk (like a creeper, yes) and smiled. If there was anyone who needed a helping hand it was her, and if there was anyone who deserved it—other than maybe someone with cancer who fed homeless kitties or something—it was, again, her. I’d watched a lot of decent people take a punch to the kisser that they didn’t deserve, metaphorically speaking, and it was a pleasant change seeing someone who didn’t deserve their hit get helped up by the entire population of Staten Island.

  Why, it was enough to make a cynical old broad like me smile.

  Okay. Maybe it wasn’t just the sweetness that brought a smile to my face.

  I dialed my phone, easing around the corner and out of the back of the precinct to where the cops smoked. I caught a glimpse of Clarice fussing over Kyra as I went out the back, waiting for someone to answer on the other end. The sun was creeping real low in the sky, sunset almost upon us, and I figured I was about ready to do the other thing that was making me smile.

  “Yo,” Jamal said as I took a hard right out the precinct door. He sounded sleepy again, and I was reminded that sometimes hackers kept vampire hours.

  “Is this line secure?” I asked, without preamble. He could read a caller ID, after all.

  There was a breath, then a beep, and the static on my line seemed to diminish slightly. “It is now.”

  “Do you ever regret what you did?”

  “What?” Jamal asked, seemingly taken aback by my question.

  “To the men who killed Flora? Do you ever feel bad about turning them into lightning rods?” I stalked away from the rear entrance to the precinct, watching for cameras. “Honest answer, Jamal. This isn’t a friggin’ inquest.”

  “No,” he said, and I could feel the conviction in his words. “She wasn’t going to see justice otherwise.”

  “Right answer,” I breathed, slipping behind a police truck. “Do you know where I am right now?”

  “New York.”

  “More specifically?”

  He sighed, and I heard tapping at a keyboard. “Staten Island. Cop shop.” He paused. “Hiding behind a police truck.”

  “Very good,” I said. “How do you feel about making sure another shitbird who’s about to slip the knot of justice gets hung up for her transgression?”

  There was a long pause. “Well …” he said finally, “… I wouldn’t feel bad about it. You talking about the person behind this attack?”

  “Nadine Griffin,” I said. “The Queen Bee of Wall Street, who is presently residing in my bonnet. And I don’t need any bees in my bonnet, Jamal, let alone a queen.”

  He chuckled lightly. “J.J. showed me some stuff earlier. The broker behind all this? His name was Abner Huntsberger. Found dead in his office earlier today. Remains were pretty badly burned. He’s a fixer, with his fingers in a bunch of different things. I can connect him to ArcheGrey1819, and maybe the mercs, but it’s tenuous, if you know what I mean. And good luck getting to Nadine Griffin from there, especially now that he’s dead.”

  “So she’s going to get away with it,” I said, burning—but not quite like Nadine’s merc broker. “She’s too smart to have left any evidence behind.”

  I could hear Jamal practically nodding along. “So what you gonna do about it?”

  I paused. “I don’t know, Jamal.” I looked around, just to make sure nobody was nearby. It looked all clear, but I kept my voice down nonetheless. “What can we do about it?”

  88.

  Nadine

  Nadine got out of the cab and swore at the cabby as he drove off, squealing tires against her cobblestone driveway. She didn’t really care about him laying rubber on her drive; it was the fact that he’d been a rude, disrespectful shit the entire ride, and had flipped her off when she’d failed to tip him.

  “People just suck,” Nadine said, mostly to herself, as she staggered up the steps to her house. The whiskey was working, and working well. She’d blown through a lot of her cash today, but that was fine, because the government was going to have to give back her money now. She smiled, swaying as she unlocked her door.

  She fumbled a little with the keys, but made it inside, the world moving back and forth pleasantly. The bed was going to spin tonight, she suspected. She liked a good case of the bedspins, but drinking made her hot, too, and she stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Maybe she’d call up Scott again, see what he was up to tonight. He wouldn’t be a bad way to spend a drunken evening, after all, and maybe she’d text Sienna Nealon another pic tomorrow just to rub it—

  Nadine paused just inside the door. Something was wrong in here; her living room smelled funny, like—like acrylic paint or she stared at the wall, and her jaw dropped open.

  “Son of a—” she muttered under her breath.

  “Not a son at all, actually,” came a voice from behind her. She turned, and—

  Oh, shit.

  There she was, Sienna Nealon, holy f—

  Nadine dropped her purse and ran, sprinting for the safe room. She tore ass, smashing against the door to the bedroom and slamming it behind her. Something lit up out in the living room, and suddenly Nadine could see an orange glow beneath the door, like someone had turned on a lamp, except that smell—

  Nadine’s eyes widened in horror. That smell was—was —

  Alcohol?

  She sprinted into the shower, punched in the code and opened the panic room, then slammed it shut behind her. Safely inside, she took a breath. The air supply in here was safe for hours and the steel walls were rated to withstand a house fire easily.

  “Not today, bitch,” she said, and looked around for her burner phones. Luckily she’d disposed of the incriminating ones, the ones that might have linked her to Abner, already. Now there was nothing left in here that would incriminate her, which meant that all she had to do was to call 911 and Sienna Nealon was going to be heading to jail to join her buddy Gravity Gal in no time.

  The phone buzzed, giving her a strange sound, like an old disconnect tone. “What the hell?” she muttered, and tried it again. It made the same sound again, and she dialed a third time, more frantically, with no luck.

  “Oh God,” Nadine muttered to herself as she stared at the old computer screen. “Well, at least she doesn’t know about this—” and then suddenly, the power went out, leaving her utterly in the dark.

  89.

  Sienna

  Jamal had been pretty thorough as we’d mapped out what needed to happen. He’d gotten me cover to leave the Staten Island police station within a very short window, where it would look like I’d just strolled out of the frame of their cameras for a few minutes if anyone checked. He’d also done a pingback of cell phone signals in the area of Nadine’s mansion and determined that she had a few burner phones secreted away in her house. He’d tracked them back to a big, dense metal room in the center of her house, partially buried and thus hidden from the FBI when they’d searched her place. Too bad they didn’t have a hacker who could control electricity well enough to override every system out there.

  Including the justice system.

  Nadine’s house was always going to look like arson, but I’d set it up so that it looked like she’d dropped a cigar—one with her own DNA on it—into a spilled bottle of liquor. Fine stuff. If I’d given a damn about that sort of thing, I might have felt a twinge of regret at wasting it on burning her house down.

  I pushed things along, of course, speeding up the fire in a few key places with Gavrikov’s power. Mainly along the axis of her panic room, because I needed that space clear. The name of the game was to make a mess, let the fire take
its natural course, but give it a little juice to hurry things along. When the arson investigators gave the place a once-over, what they’d find would be consistent with a fire started in whiskey by a drunken, negligent idiot. They didn’t need to know I’d helped it grow, and there certainly wouldn’t be any signs of it.

  Pretty soon, the fire was spreading to the ceiling, and I had a nice, clear view of the metal wall of the panic room. It was time to execute the plan that Jamal and I had worked up once he’d detected it.

  The problem with leaving Nadine Griffin’s corpse in her house while it burned was that if I killed her myself, it’d be fairly obvious. I was strong but not particularly controlled, so if I busted her in the face, she would die and it would look like someone strong had busted her in the damned face. I’d seen that cause of death enough times to know what it looked like, and it wouldn’t be a very long leap for someone to figure out I’d probably done it. Proving it might be difficult since I was torching the DNA evidence I was leaving behind, but I didn’t need a cloud of suspicion over me.

  That meant Nadine had to leave the premises, and fortunately for me, she’d played right into my hand, panicking when she saw me, and of course, running right into her … panic room.

  I keyed my Wolfe strength and gripped tight along the sides of the panic room’s steel surface, lifting as I siphoned the heat from the metal where I’d burned away the covering of drywall that hid it from sight. The foundation cracked under my strength, and I ripped the panic room’s steel floor free from the concrete surface of the mansion. It wasn’t bonded at all, really, which made sense given that no one had ever thought someone would come along and lift the damned thing up, after all.