Justice (The Galilee Falls Trilogy)

by Jennifer Harlow

  But I’ve forgotten I’m chasing a crazy man. The SUV plows through the partition and up the incline. No way, no fucking way. I watch as the car accelerates up the metal to the top, and glides through the air like Blue Angel toward the other side.

  There’s no way my car can make that leap, so I come to a skidding stop right next to the splintered wood. I hold onto the steering wheel for dear life, my breath coming out in short bursts but only for a few moments. I barely realize I’m climbing out of my smoking, damaged car, walking past the stunned old man who must control the bridge, to the side. I have to know if he made it.

  And there he is. He’s leaning on the side too, a huge smile plastered on his handsome face. I watch, unable to do a damn thing as he blows me a dramatic kiss with both hands and waves before walking out of sight. Motherfucker.

  “Was that really Alkaline?” the old man asks beside me.

  “Yeah,” I say though my ragged breaths.

  “Then may God help us.”

  “Amen.”

  ***

  Pandemonium, pure and utter pandemonium.

  I wait outside, sitting on the steps staring at the now clogged parking lot. Ambulances, fire trucks, police cruisers, and tech vans all vie for space in this mess. A blue tent is being set up where forensic techs in their white coveralls swarm, collecting evidence and taking notes. The coroner and her assistant stand by to take the Asian man’s body to the morgue. I can’t stop shivering and it’s not from the cold. The adrenaline has worn off and now I’m spastic. Or it could just be the guilt.

  A gray Crown Victoria is stopped at the gate, but then pulls through. I stand up and take a deep breath. I am not looking forward to this. Out of the car comes three men, the rest of my surrogate family. Detectives Seth Mirabelle and Mitch Kowalski, both in their early forties and each packing a few extra pounds in their wrinkled suits, are followed by our boss, Lieutenant Harry O’Hara. He’s a few years younger than Cam, mid-forties, with medium height, medium build, and fine brown hair just starting to go gray at the temples that shines red in the light. His Roman nose is straight, his lips are thin, his chin is a little weak, and blue eyes are hidden behind rectangular silver framed glasses. He’s handsome, though. Something about the eyes. Intense at times.

  I stand as they get closer. “Evening, guys.”

  “If it isn’t Speed Racer,” Kowalski says.

  “Shut up,” I mutter.

  “Are you alright? Are you injured at all?” Harry asks.

  “Just my pride.”

  “You did all you could, I know you did,” Harry says.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He meets my eyes with a nod. “So, get us up to speed. Who is the man in the lot?”

  “Dr. John Qwan, psychiatrist here. Pretty straightforward. Ryder snapped his neck and stole his car. The real show is upstairs.”

  I lead them through the bustling lobby. They had to shut off the metal detectors because they were constantly screeching. We take the service stairs to the second floor and through the empty exit. The narrow hallway is packed to capacity with half a dozen techs taking blood and acid drops. Right as I step out of the stairwell, a forensic tech snaps a picture of a pool of blood by my right foot. A white numbered card sits just off to the side of the grotesque sight.

  We join Cam near the second body, what was once a man in a brown guard’s uniform, though anything else I can’t tell about him. His head is nothing but red and white sludge on the beige linoleum. It’s as if his head has dissolved, which I guess it has. The rest of him lays sprawled in front of the open cell door where more techs take pictures inside.

  Cam stands and nods at the men. “Hello, sir.”

  “Get us up to speed quickly,” Harry says.

  Cam flips back the pages of his notebook, the detective’s best friend. “At 7:18, James Ryder, AKA Alkaline’s, cell door opened, cause unknown. Two guards were assigned to this section at the time, Steven Moore, this fellow on the ground, and Logan Dodd, who we found downstairs.”

  “Where is he now?” Harry asks.

  “On the way to the hospital, sans hand. Poor kid. Only twenty. He was in shock when we found him and about a second later fell unconscious. He should make it, though.”

  “Did someone order protective custody for him at the hospital?” Mirabelle asks.

  “Already done,” I say.

  “So,” Cam says, “somehow Ryder got out of his cell, and best we can figure took Moore out right away when he went for his gun. Then he grabs Dodd and drags him to the stairwell. Like all locks between the blocks, you need both a keycard and fingerprint for the door to open.”

  “Explains why he took Dodd’s hand,” I say.

  “Yeah. Took his uniform too. He, uh, made it all the way to the parking lot without incident,” Cam says.

  All eyes momentarily glance my way. I turn red from head to toe. Harry puts his hand on my shoulder, the smell of Old Spice wafting from him. It’s an acquired taste. “Honest mistake.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “And if you had said something he probably would have killed you,” Kowalski adds.

  “Thanks.” I turn to Harry. “Any news on the car he stole?”

  “We passed it on the way here. They found it a half mile down the road on the shoulder. He could be on foot.”

  “We’re not that lucky,” I say. “I’ll bet he either had a car waiting for him, or someone picked him up.”

  “Some unsuspecting good Samaritan?” Cam offers.

  “Near a prison? Yeah, right. My money’s on an accomplice picking him up, something he arranged. He knew he only had a matter of minutes, if he’s lucky, before they realize he’s gone and sound the alarm.” Though Dodd and I screwed that up for him. “He’s not going to leave it to chance that someone will drive by and pick him up. No way in hell. Remember, this guy planned the Arroyo bank heist. He was the head of a multi-million dollar underworld organization for over twenty years. He’s a genius. Even Justice had problems capturing him. Two years we were all after this guy. Ryder left nothing to chance on this.”

  “I agree with Det. Fallon,” an annoyingly familiar deep voice says. Oh, goody. Justice. If I were eight this would have been a thrill. I’d either faint or babble like an idiot. Now, I feel nothing but irritation, like a rash that pops up and bothers you for days. I’ve spent all of ten minutes of my life around him, and that was more than enough.

  He’s just about 6”2’ and muscular, though how much is the dark blue leather-like suit and how much is him has been debated for ages. His suit is actually a lightweight Kevlar popular with all superheroes. Not that he needs it what with the super-healing ability, but I suppose it helps lessen bruising. Depending on the light, the suit is either black or dark blue with red piping and a white scale on his chest. Everything is covered, even his mouth, with wire over it so he can talk and breathe. Along his waist is his red belt with the usual: riot cuffs, stun gun, foam canister, and other gadgets I have no idea what he does with. Per the experts, they change depending on who he’s chasing at the time. I don’t give a crap enough to notice or care.

  Not only is he able to survive a gunshot to the head with little more than a headache, he’s fast. Clocked at a hundred fast. And strong. I saw this firsthand when he lifted a car above his head at Galilee Falls Day when I was ten. Pop took me. He liked Justice too.

  “The best in America and he’s all ours,” Pop would say when we watched his latest heroics on the news. Pop would flip if he knew I got to work with him. That is if he was still alive.

  “Gee, thanks,” I say sarcastically.

  “Justice. Good to see you,” Harry says.

  The two men shake hands, and I roll my eyes. Harry is a great detective, one of the best to ever walk the streets, but now he’s a bureaucrat first. The more stripes on the uniform, the more butts they expect you to kiss. The day they want me behind a desk is the day I turn in my badge.

  “I just heard,” Justice says. “Tel
l me how I can help.”

  “We’re still trying to figure out what happened here,” Harry says.

  Justice’s masked face turns my way. “And you, Detective? I heard you pursued him and got into a scuffle. You seem intact. Did he harm you?”

  “No,” I say, glancing at Harry who remains impassive. “The car is another story.”

  “Chasing him on your own was ill-advised. He could have killed you, Detective,” the superhero says harshly. “Please try to remember that next time.”

  I glare at him. “Yeah, the next time a psychopath tries to get away on my watch I’ll just hold the door for him.”

  I can’t see his face under the mask but I’d bet he’s glaring back. “I will let you all get back to work. I’ll assist in the search. Check his old haunts, interview a few key players. Keeping the public safe should be our top priority.”

  “Duh,” I mutter.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Harry says, ignoring me. “We’ll keep you in the loop.”

  “And if I find anything, I’ll do the same. It’s going to take all of us working together, but I have no doubt we’ll find him.”

  “Bye,” I say super sweet with a small wave before he zooms off like lightening. All the people who were watching go back to work now that the celebrity has left.

  Harry shakes his head and flips open his ringing cell phone. “Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor,” he says before walking to the stairwell.

  “You can be a real brat sometimes,” Cam says.

  “I’ll try to be more consistent in the future,” I say with another smile. “Let’s go check the psychopath’s cell.”

  Cam’s lips purse in disapproval before he steps into the cell with me right behind. With the two photographers, two forensic techs dusting and tweezing, former wrestler Mirabelle and just plain fat Kowalski this place is jammed to the point of claustrophobic. The cells at Xavier are double the size of a normal one as the inmates almost never get to leave them except for therapy, their seven hours a week walking around an enclosed gym in shackles, and their weekly shower, also in handcuffs.

  All the standards are here: twin bed, metal toilet sans lid, desk, and now destroyed trash can. Alkaline spruced the place up with a few murder mystery books, a poster of the Galilee skyline and falls, and countless clippings about Justice that cover all the free space on the walls. There are even old ones dating back from the forties to present day.

  “Holy crap. Someone has a crush,” I say. One of the photographers smiles, and Cam gives me a look.

  “There are blank spots,” Mirabelle says, pointing to one or two places where the white wall is visible.

  “I’ll bet whatever was up on the walls is now in there,” Kowalski says, gesturing to the demolished trashcan. The plastic is melted at the bottom and twisted where the splatters hit on the side.

  “It melted straight through the floor to the lead,” a tech says.

  “Can you tell what was in there?” I ask.

  “Doubt it, but we’ll try anyway.”

  “I want all of this stuff processed and on my desk ASAP,” Cam says. “Books, sheets, everything. And fingerprint all surfaces. If there is one latent that’s not Ryder’s, run it.”

  “You got it,” the tech says.

  “What about the security cameras? They must have captured this clusterfuck,” I say.

  “First thing we checked,” the second tech says. “He uploaded a virus. It wiped out an entire week’s worth of footage and blocked the possibility of a lockdown.”

  “Of course it did,” I mutter.

  “Let’s pow wow,” Cam says to us.

  We follow him out and down the hall away from the blood and death. The rest of the cells are shut up, so not even the metal slots are open. I wonder what they think is going on. We’re going to have to interview them, which is not something I’m looking forward to. Especially Chameleon. It’s creepy when he morphs to look like me.

  “First thoughts people,” Cam says. He’s the senior detective in the squad, and always leads the brainstorming session when Harry’s busy. He’ll be lead detective and I’ll be his number two, just the way I like it. All the fun, none of the responsibility.

  “He lured us here,” I say. “He wanted us at the center of this for a reason.”

  “Any idea why? Either of you had any dealings with him before this?” Mirabelle asks.

  “No,” Cam says.

  “I was the first responder on one of his murders a few years back,” I say. “Luis Rivas, his documents guy. And we grew up in the same neighborhood, but I never met him. Ever.”

  “Speaking of the Ward, do we think it’s just a coincidence that Alkaline’s old Lieutenant Mike Spencer died in a bomb blast the same day his buddy busted out?” Kowalski asks.

  “Hell no,” I say. “He probably helped him plan this. Where did you guys get on that?”

  “Not far. We have an eyewitness saying she saw a man in black flying away just seconds before the blast, but she was as high as a kite, so who the hell knows?” Mirabelle answers.

  “Man in black flying away? Any theories on who he might be?” Cam asks.

  “Not as yet, but I’m pretty sure this investigation will be melded with that one,” Mirabelle says.

  “So what else do we know?” Cam asks.

  “He’s obsessed with Justice,” Kowalski says.

  “Something a little less obvious,” I say.

  “He should be warned,” Kowalski says.

  “He knows, I’m sure,” I say.

  “It tells us he’ll probably stay in the city,” Cam says. “But just in case, we should notify buses, trains, airports to be on the lookout. Give them all his past aliases.”

  Harry reappears from inside the stairwell and starts walking down to us. “Here comes Harry,” I say. We wait for him before continuing.

  He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “That was the mayor and commissioner. They are officially ordering a task force. By midnight there should be about twenty officers on this, anyone who worked on any Ryder-related case just to start. Every officer in the city is at our disposal. Cam, you’re taking point on this under me.”

  “Too bad Stackhouse ate his gun,” Mirabelle says. “He helped find this guy last time.”

  “We have his notes and case files,” Harry says. “We’ll start pulling all files, trial transcripts, everything we have on this guy. Stuff from in here too.”

  “They’re already on it,” Cam says. “We’ll get full cooperation.”

  “We should also pull in all known accomplices,” Kowalski says.

  “And interview anyone who had contact with him in here,” I add. “I’m talking guards, inmates, if they washed his sheets we need to grill them. Hard. This was an inside job if ever I saw one.”

  “We should also reach out to all our CIs,” Cam says.

  “Agreed. Now, walk us through the night, Jo,” Harry says.

  “Okay. First, they tranq these guys within an inch of their lives, and if I remember correctly, during sentencing, they also ordered that he be given some cocktail Justice developed to reduce the pH level in his body. He had to be off both to do this. Either someone stopped giving them to him, or he was slipped more drugs to counteract them.”

  “We’ll start with the doctors here,” Mirabelle says.

  “Second. How’d he get out of his cell? There are no acid marks on the door, so someone had to open it for him. Either intentionally or Ryder faked a medical emergency.”

  “The injured guard, Dodd, should shed some light on this when he wakes up,” Cam says.

  “And third, we’re assuming he had outside help on this. Someone picked him up outside the prison, and the death of Mike Spencer is too coincidental. I’d bet money we’ll find another set of tire tracks where he ditched the car. Someone picked him up, which means he had contact with the outside world.”

  “So?” Mirabelle asks. “Mail. E-mail.”

  “No, after he sent harassing letters to Grace Pickering a
nd other witnesses, they cut off his mail privileges,” Cam says. “He can get mail, but he can’t send anything out. And since they have Virus here, who can import himself into a modem, they got rid of the internet.”

  “We’ll get the visitor logs and copies of all letters he received,” Harry says.

  “It’ll be a lot,” I say. “Alkaline was popular with the villain groupies. At the trial they practically had to sweep all the underwear thrown at him. I think there’s even thousands of fan fiction stories about him and websites.”

  “We’ll still go through them, interview the more dedicated groupies,” Cam says.

  “What about tonight?” Mirabelle asks.

  “I doubt he’ll try anything tonight,” I say. “If I had to guess, we have at least a day or two before he makes his presence known. He’s a planner; he’ll need time to set up whatever he’s got up his sleeve.”

  “We’re against the clock people,” Harry says. “Because whatever he has in mind, it’s going to be big. There isn’t a single person safe in this city tonight.”

  “Then let’s be big damn heroes,” I say, grinning cheek to cheek.

  ***

  Even Justice sleeps, or at least I imagine he does. Who the hell knows? I’m too tired to think about it. This hero has been on the clock over twenty-four hours, and fell asleep leaning against the wall of the prison. Harry shoved coffee down my throat and sent me packing. The prison is only about fifteen minutes from my apartment, and I barely make it. I park my borrowed brown work Sedan only a block from my building, something that never happens. I usually have to walk at least three.

  My building is a five-story brownstone built in the early twenties by Justin’s great-grandfather. He offered to let me stay rent free, but my stupid pride wouldn’t let me accept. The apartment was just the last in a long line of things he kept trying to buy for me. Cars, clothes, trips, even ice skates once. I refused. Didn’t want to prove his Aunt Lucy right that I was just there for the money. As if she has a job.

  I’m on the fifth floor with one other person, Mrs. Jeffrey. Old woman, lots of cats. She’s hard of hearing, so my late comings and goings don’t bother her. She loves me. One time her water heater broke. I just called Justin and it was replaced within a few hours. I got a couple of muffin baskets out of that one. Had to refuse the cat, though.