“Never a bad time to share happy news,” Jill said, lightly elbowing Ramon in the side.
The sound of Jill's ringtone going off interrupted the moment, and Ramon rolled his eyes while his partner got up to retrieve the device.
“Andersen,” she answered.
“Detective,” a male voice greeted on the other end. “This is Stanley with the Sun.”
Jill rolled her eyes. “No comment.”
“That's not why I'm calling. I've come across some information that, if I run with it, could be incredibly damaging to you.”
Jill's blood ran cold, and she locked eyes with Ramon. “Damaging.”
“I don't want to run with this story,” he admitted. “But I'm getting pressured to do it. Can we meet somewhere?”
“How do I know this isn't a trap of some sort?”
“Please, Detective,” the writer scoffed. “I'm just a newspaper writer. No criminal masterminds here.”
Slipping into her bathroom and opening a sky blue box on her sink, Jill pulled out her skin graft. “Fine. The roof of the Transamerica Tower. Twenty minutes. Come alone.”
When she hung up the phone, she caught the crease in Ramon's brow. “That was Stanley Erikson from the Sun. He says he has information that could be damaging to me.”
“And you're meeting him?” Ramon asked. “To what? Beat him up?”
Jill shrugged. “He says he doesn't wanna run with it.”
Ramon's eyes widened. “You don't think...?”
“I hope not.” Jill leaned over the sink, applying the graft. “But what else could it be?”
CHAPTER 49
The Transamerica Tower, on top of being one of Baltimore's most recognizable skyscrapers, was as close as Jill had to a secret base of operations. She had her share of clandestine meetings on this rooftop since embarking on her secret double life, and this building represented her near-death and eventual rebirth. Not even a year ago, she had been tossed out of David Gregor's fortieth-story penthouse -- through the window. Only her titanium-enforced skeleton -- and some quick thinking while in freefall -- had saved her that night.
This building had also proven key in discovering who killed Dr. Trent Roberts, and who had ultimately funded Project Fusion. It was a stroke of irony that the man who funded those experiments was now the closest thing Jill had to an arch nemesis, and she wondered if that was the sort of tricks those comic books Brian used to read often employed. It all seemed a bit hokey to her.
Her stomach was doing somersaults as she studied her hometown's skyline, which practically shone under the full moon. Stars were hard to come by when one was downtown, but the way the buildings lit up, the way M&T Bank Stadium and Oriole Park at Camden Yards seemed to draw everything to the rest of the city made up for it. The Inner Harbor was its usually busy self, thanks to the litany of locals and tourists. The Inner Harbor was one of those rare cityscapes that attracted both kinds, and it usually made Pratt Street one of the busiest roads in the state, if not the entire East Coast.
Jill had changed out of her bodysuit following the phone call from Stanley Erikson. She had never met him personally, but she knew of him -- because he wrote the first article about her alter ego to ever appear in Baltimore's flagship newspaper. That article had given her the name Bounty, and Stanley had become -- for lack of a better term -- Bounty's beat writer.
She had an idea what this meeting was about, but Jill had hoped against hope that she was wrong.
But really, who was she kidding?
The heavy metal door leading out to the roof swung open and slammed shut, announcing Stanley's presence. Jill turned in time to see him leaning back against the door, catching his breath before ducking his head when a gust of wind hit him.
“Gotta say,” he called out before approaching Jill, “you have the strangest meeting spots.”
“It's for my own protection,” she countered, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat. “If you're about to tell me what I think you're about to tell me...”
“This conversation will be completely off the record,” Stanley promised, tugging on the collar of his orange-and-black windbreaker. Like Jill, Stanley was a child of Baltimore, through and through. “Nothing that is said tonight will wind up in the paper.”
“No offense, but that doesn't really help my nerves.”
“Understood.” Stanley offered a smile that seemed polite enough before ducking his head. “A source tells me you're the vigilante.”
And there it was. Jill wondered who the source was, even as part of her subconscious screamed a name at her. But it couldn't be David Gregor; why would he out her like this when they were apparently on the same side regarding an issue? His public comments against police brutality had been a surprise, and Jill briefly considered it a break that she was working a case that didn't connect back to him. But it had to be him... everyone else who knew was either dead or on Jill's side. Her own colleagues wouldn't out her like that, would they?
“Don't suppose you'll tell me who this source is,” she pointed out, feigning indifference.
“I’m workin’ on that.” Stanley shrugged and joined Jill by the ledge, taking a moment to stare at the skyline. “We always take for granted how pretty this place is at night.” He went silent for entirely too long, resting his elbows on the concrete of the ledge. He stared out over the bay, shaking his head before he gazed up at the full moon. “I was skeptical at first. I mean, that's a hell of a thing, you know? A cop who's also a vigilante? But... going through all the photos we have of Bounty in our database, even a couple that we've got of you at crime scenes...” He turned to Jill and pointed at her face. “Even with that... thing, facial recognition software gave us a 96 percent hit.”
Jill arched a brow. “How does the Sun have better face-rec technology than the police?”
“Laying off a third of the newsroom, probably.”
Jill stared at the bay. “So you want me to confirm your source's claim?”
“I'm not gonna lie,” Stanley said, “my curiosity is getting the best of me. Not just ‘cause I'm a reporter, ya know? But... I don't wanna print the story if it's true.”
Jill couldn't keep the shock off her face. “You're kidding, right?”
“I know.” Stanley shrugged. “It's got Pulitzer all over it. I'd be a god in my profession, solving the biggest mystery in Baltimore since Jeffrey Maier. My bosses have been begging for me to break this story for months.” He sighed. “But the fact is, I like having Bounty around. If I write this article and broadcast her real identity all over the city, if not the state, that's a life I'm ruining. She'd have to go on the run. She'd have the police all over her. This city would lose one hell of a hero.”
“And you want Bounty around.”
“In this case, I'm willing to sacrifice professional acclaim if it means this city is a little less shitty.”
As logical as Stanley's reasoning was, Jill was stunned to hear it. She long figured the day the media caught wind of her secret, that was it. Her face and name would be broadcast all over the television, it would grace the front page of every newspaper in the BWI corridor. It was the reason Jill always kept a black duffle bag packed and tucked into the back of her closet, in case she ever had to bolt at a moment's notice.
This was so not what she expected.
“In that case,” Jill said, turning to face Stanley as she reached up to pull off her skin graft, “your source is correct.”
Stanley gasped when his eyes first set on the eyeplate, but the shock almost immediately gave way to a genuine smile. Stanley shook his head and held out his right arm. When Jill frowned in confusion, he nodded once toward the hand he had held open for her. When she grabbed his hand, he gave her a firm shake and another head nod.
“Nice to finally meet a genuine hero,” he said.
“I appreciate that,” Jill said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “but I'm not doing anything special.”
“You kiddin'? Detective, you're actual
ly doing something about the shithole this city's become.” Stanley shook his head again. “Everyone just throws up their hands and says they did all they could, even when they didn't, and here you are doing more. That's not nothing, and don't let anyone tell you different.”
“I'm also technically a criminal.”
“Only if the wrong people find out,” Stanley said with a shrug. “And believe me, Detective, I won't be the one to tell them.”
CHAPTER 50
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, Daniel Richards paid little mind to the nightly news. Having WJZ on in time for the 11:00 news was as much a habit as anything else, but seldom did Richards pay the anchors any mind. Their make-up was a little too obvious in this era of high definition, and they read their scripts with either far too much vigor or as if they were in dire need of a battery change. In truth, Richards watched most nights just to make sure Jill didn't wind up on the airwaves. The ritual had started the moment Jill revealed to him that she was the costumed vigilante known as Bounty, and thus far, Richards' second-worst fear hadn't yet come true.
But when the graphic showed up over the male anchor's left shoulder -- a hastily thrown together image of a shadow above the sprawled-out words Vigilante at the Inner Harbor -- Richards' heart skipped a beat. He reached for the remote with such haste that he accidentally knocked the trophy he kept by his side off the desk. It had once celebrated his team winning the annual Cops vs. Firefighters charity softball game, but now it lay on the floor in three pieces.
Richards took his TV off mute.
“It would appear,” the anchor began with a studious glare into the camera, “that Bounty is not alone. Eyewitness accounts near Pier 5 on the Inner Harbor this afternoon have told WJZ that a masked vigilante took control of a Baltimore Police Department SWAT vehicle, driving it into the water and emerging from the driver's side just moments before splashdown.”
With a ragged sigh, and expecting his phone to be ringing off the hook at any moment, Richards leaned forward and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“While the BPD has yet to confirm this information, reports from multiple sources tell WJZ that the van was carrying the four police officers officially charged in the murder of 17-year-old Devin Buckner. Our own Bernard Escobar is in front of City Hall with the rest of the story.”
The camera cut to a thin-built Hispanic man who wore a brown suit that looked a size and a half too large, a black-and-purple umbrella resting on his left shoulder as he spoke into the microphone clutched in his right hand. “Tom, it has been a rough week for Baltimore Police, and it has gotten even worse with the news that the four officers charged in Devin Buckner's murder might have just been plunged into the Chesapeake Bay. Officials aren't offering many details, but here is what we know as of now: at roughly 3:30 p.m. earlier this afternoon, witnesses at Pier 5 said they spotted a SWAT vehicle careening through the pier out of control and at a high rate of speed. Just before the van fell into the water, witnesses say the driver's side door swung open and a black-clad figure barrel-rolled out.
“The van sank into the water almost immediately, and outgoing tides pushed the vehicle further away from the pier. The BPD has sent a dive team out to retrieve the van, and the FBI has offered its assistance. Tom?”
The anchor returned on-screen. “Bernard, what do we know about this masked figure?”
“Other than the fact that it wasn't Bounty, not much,” the reporter answered with a shake of his head as the monitor went to a split screen. “Witnesses say this particular individual had a male frame, and their black outfit included a mask that obscured even their eyes. The BPD has no comment at this point, and they have not offered anything more in the way of specifics regarding this individual.”
“What do we know at this point?” the anchor asked.
“Only what we've already shared with our viewers,” Bernard answered. “Several TV crews and a gaggle of newspaper writers have gathered here in front of City Hall awaiting an update, and I'm told Deputy Commissioner Baldwin will provide a statement at midnight, but at this point, we're all just playing the waiting game. Tom?”
“Thank you, Bernard.” The anchor gazed seriously into the camera again. “This evening, Detective Joshua Paulson, out of the Narcotics division, is being held in police custody and being questioned in the assassination of District Attorney Ramona Parish. A police spokesperson would not go into more detail, but sources have told Eyewitness News that Paulson is the lead suspect in the case.”
Richards turned off the TV in disgust, tossing his remote across the office and scrubbing both hands over his face. The stubble on his cheeks was patchy, the result of not having used a razor in three days, and the hairs on his mustache were threatening to curl as they grew past his upper lip. He removed his glasses, trying to rub the exhaustion out of his eyes before spinning in his chair and reaching for the bottle of whiskey behind his desk. The bullpen was empty at this late hour, aside from the janitorial staff, so Richards had no qualms with pouring himself two fingers of the amber liquid before downing it in one gulp.
He hissed as the glass slammed against the desk. Richards stared out the window overlooking the city, shaking his head and biting his lower lip.
Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse...
Chapter 51
As soon as the sun began to rise, bathing downtown Baltimore in its refreshing light, protestors began to congregate on the grassy area off to the side of Pratt Street. The four officers winding up in the bay the day before had done little to sate the protestors’ anger; for them, it wasn’t simply a case of those four officers answering for their crime. It was also the fact that the city’s political elite still had Devin Buckner’s blood on their hands. Vigilante justice was good enough for some, but for others, justice wasn’t final until those calling the shots were also held to account.
Signs calling for Commissioner Saunders’ resignation waved for a nearby news helicopter to capture on camera. Protestors chanted at the top of their lungs, their voices carrying into the cars creeping along Pratt as fast as the off-synch traffic lights would allow. The ringleader, his mouth pressed to a bullhorn, raised his right fist into the air, his voice straining as he repeatedly called for the mayor to resign as well.
“Not just for Devin Buckner!” he cried out. “And not just for all of the others killed at the hands of the police! Ramona Parish deserves justice, too!”
“Amen!” one of the voices in the crowd called out.
“She was on our side! So they put a bullet in her head!”
“Preach!”
“All we ask is for justice to be served!” The man with the bullhorn slammed his free fist against his chest. “All we ask is those who took an oath to protect us pay a price when they fail to live up to that oath!”
“Black lives matter!” the crowd began to chant. “Black lives matter! Black lives matter!”
Another voice cut through the chanting, muffled by its own bullhorn and startling the protestors into silence. “Back away and disperse at once. Repeat: back away and disperse at once!”
The man leading the cheers lowered his bullhorn and squinted into the thick lenses of his black-rimmed glasses. Six police officers decked out in riot gear were marching onto the grass, carrying clear shields and black batons. Handguns were clearly displayed on their hips, and all six officers wore stony gazes, their eyes practically hidden under their helmets and behind their visors.
“What is this?” the protest leader asked. “We have a right to be here.”
“But you do not have the right to cause a scene.”
“First Amendment, bruh,” one of the other protestors argued. “We ain’t hurtin’ nobody. You can’t harass us.”
“Citizen complaints,” the lead cop in riot gear, who had the name Simmons etched into his black vest, countered. “When people feel threatened, we’re obliged to respond.”
“Bullshit,” the protest leader bit back, setting his bullhorn down on the ground
before standing up as straight as he could. Several of the protestors surrounding him had pulled out their phones to record the confrontation. “Ain’t no one call nuthin’ in… y’all just wanna keep us quiet.”
Simmons’ fingers flexed against the baton in his right hand. His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. “You should show some respect, boy.”
The young man’s eyes widened at the word boy, but -- thanks in part to the hand resting on his left shoulder -- his hands did not ball into fists and he stood perfectly still. Instead, his lips curled into a sneer and he shook his head. “Y’all don’t deserve no respect.”
“Put your hands in the air,” Simmons ordered. “All of you.”
A couple of the protestors near the back of the gathering put their hands up in the air, but the protest leader and the group immediately surrounding him did nothing. In fact, the young man took a step toward Simmons, holding his hands up in front of himself to show he wasn’t a threat. Two of the women behind him gasped when one of the policemen reached for the gun on his hip and drew the weapon.
“You arrestin’ us?” the young man asked. “What for?”
“I said, hands in the air!” Simmons yelled over the young man’s shoulder.
“No!” came a yell from the crowd.
“Son, don’t make me draw my weapon…”
“I wish you would!” the young man challenged. “Vincent Wiggins got nuthin’ to hide!”
“Sir,” Simmons warned, “step back!”
Instead, Vincent stepped forward. “Fuck. You.”
All six cops in riot gear sheathed their batons and drew their guns instead. Simmons cocked his weapon and set his jaw, pointing the barrel of his BPD-issued firearm right at Vincent’s forehead. Vincent stood his ground, chin held high, even as some of the protestors behind him gasped and cowered together. The blades of the news chopper whirred overhead, and Vincent stole a glance skyward.
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