CHAPTER 5
The complex between Pratt Street and Columbus Park, which ran along President Street, housed several corporate offices, condominiums, and a handful of restaurants. However, despite the city's constant efforts to the contrary, there were also a couple abandoned warehouse spaces. Most such places throughout downtown Baltimore had been cleaned out and renovated in recent years, if not outright demolished, as part of a widespread effort to revitalize the city. The Inner Harbor was the crown jewel of the city, and everything was built out from that. In this case, being nestled in behind the Inner Harbor had worked against the complex.
On this chilly morning, the empty space on the south end of the complex—on the first floor of a building that reached as high as fourteen stories—was of particular interest to select officers and detectives based out of the city's Seventh Precinct. A late-night 9-1-1 call alerting dispatchers of suspicious activity had led to two uniformed officers stopping by, expecting to find rambunctious teenagers or a couple homeless—only to be greeted by the foul stench of death.
Preliminary analysis from forensics estimated the body had been in the warehouse anywhere from a week to ten days. Which was why Detectives Earl Stevens, Hitori Watson, and Whitney Blankenship all showed up at the scene with clinical masks over their faces in addition to the latex gloves and shoe covers they typically wore. The stench still nearly doubled Watson over as the trio made their entrance. The breeze coming in from the nearby harbor didn't help, and it was bad enough that even the seagulls kept their distance. The incoming tide had a stench all its own that some found hard to stomach. Adding a rotting body to that produced an aroma so foul it seemed impossible.
"Jesus fucking... Jesus," Stevens muttered with a shake of his head. "Smells worse than that time Grampy plowed into a family of skunks with his truck."
"You're not wrong," Juanita Gutierrez, the Baltimore Police Department's lead medical examiner, said. Hunched over the dead body, she wiped her brow. The bags under her eyes were dark, and her skin appeared to have a green hint to it. That had to be the lighting, though, because when did the person who performed autopsies for a living ever feel ill around a corpse?
For all the years Juanita had given her brother grief over his relatively weak stomach at crime scenes, she didn't find it so funny anymore. Death was not kind in what it left in its wake, especially once a body reached a point where, under normal circumstances, it would have already been buried or cremated.
All three detectives kept their distance, opting against an up-close look at the bloated corpse. They were fine with not seeing the residue of something foamy around the victim's mouth and nose. Most of the forensic crew had already left the scene, content with what had been gathered and eager to get back to their climate-controlled offices—where the brutal reality of death was relegated to photographs and written reports.
Juanita and the detectives weren't quite so lucky. There was no telling how many showers it would take for Juanita to get out the stench of this one. Same for Stevens, because there was no way she was letting him touch her with that funk on him.
"So how exactly does a body go missing for a week in this town?" Watson asked.
Blankenship shook her head, stealing a sideways glance at the victim. With a sharp intake of breath, she cupped her hand over her mouth, instantly regretting her choice. She had to turn her back, close her eyes, and take three deep breaths, counting to ten before each exhale. Only then did her stomach no longer feel like doing somersaults – but just barely.
"This part of the building looks abandoned," Stevens said. "Initial report said officers didn't find the body til they were here respondin' to something else."
Juanita stood, tucking her clipboard under her arm and resting her free hand on Stevens' shoulder. She smiled at him ever so slightly, and he returned the gesture with a dip of his head. Not that she could see it because of the mask. Still, the gesture calmed the rumbling in Juanita's gut, but she knew she was still going without lunch.
"We have ID?" Blankenship asked in a choked, clipped tone.
"Thought I'd leave that to you guys," Juanita answered, biting back a smirk. "Other than the bullet hole in his forehead, there's not much of interest for me."
Watson frowned. "Bullet still in there?"
Juanita nodded. "CSU techs found the shell casing in the far corner. They've already sent it off for analysis."
After sucking in a deep breath and holding it, Stevens finally approached the body and dropped to a knee. A loud pop was all he got for his efforts—with the body as bloated as it was, with a tint that was green in some areas and red in others, there was no hope of physical recognition.
But there was the bullet hole, clear as day.
"Precision shot," he muttered, cocking his head to the side. "Ain't all they did to him, though."
Both Watson and Blankenship were standing behind Stevens now, peering over his shoulder as he lowered the victim's shirt collar to reveal a long red gash along the neck.
"Throat slashing gone wrong?" Blankenship asked.
"Torture?" Watson offered.
"Dunno." Stevens smacked his lips and scratched at the top of his head, returning to his feet with a grunt. "Suit's awful nice, though. Whoever this is, he had money."
Watson hunched down next to the body, cocking his head to the side before lifting the victim's suit coat and reaching into his back pocket. Pulling out a tri-fold wallet, he stood again, opening it as his two partners looked on. When Watson found the victim's driver's license, his body went stiff.
"Holy shit..."
Stevens blinked. "Language, Watson."
"What is it, Hi?" Blankenship asked.
"I know who the victim is." Watson showed the license to Stevens and Blankenship. "It's City Councilman Aaron Franco."
Turning to the few forensic techs who were still on the scene, Stevens let out a high-pitched whistle—or as much of one as he could muster with the mask over his mouth. "Listen up! I want every inch of this warehouse covered. You find anything out of place, you bag it and tag it! And keep this shit quiet! Last thing we need is to start beatin' reporters back with sticks."
Blankenship approached her partner and leaned in, reaching out to grab his shoulder before thinking better of it and letting her hand fall to her side instead. "What the hell is a city councilman doing in an abandoned warehouse?"
Watson quirked a brow. "You mean other than rotting?"
"From what we've gathered," a familiar voice explained from behind the three detectives, "Councilman Franco was connected to a Ukrainian drug syndicate, one famous for funneling heroin into the States."
A wide grin broke out onto Stevens' face—not that anyone could see it. He dipped his chin and tipped an imaginary cap, the thumb on his other hand tucked into a belt loop. "Well, lookit what the Feds dragged in."
Jill Andersen briefly returned the smile. She tugged on the sleeves of her navy blue blazer, still uncomfortable with the way it sat on her shoulders. Her brown hair was done up in a ponytail, as it always had been at crime scenes, and the handgun holstered to her hip was intimately familiar. The black wallet-like fold with her FBI badge hung in her free hand; she had been prepared to show it upon reaching the crime scene, but her face was still familiar enough that the uniformed officer directing traffic waved her through.
"Good to see you too, Earl." Jill dipped her head and tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear. "Hi, Whit. J."
Were they all not in the presence of a rotting corpse, the reunion might have included hugs. Jill was still close with her former Homicide crew, despite having resigned, been on the run from the law, and signed on to a secret task force at the FBI. All within the past month. The fact that there were no true hard feelings—well, almost none—was a source of relief for Jill.
Blankenship pursed her lips. "FBI taking over?"
"No." Jill finally pocketed her badge before further adjusting her latex gloves. "I'm only here because I got a tip last night tha
t Franco had gone missing. He'd been on our radar for some time, so I thought you might appreciate what we have on him."
Watson adjusted his mask, which didn’t fit all that well over his chin. "If it helps us find whoever killed him, sure."
"This is a homicide within the Seventh Precinct's jurisdiction," Jill added. "So, it's your case, and it will remain so unless we discover something that means the FBI has to take over."
Watson stuffed his hands in his pockets. "What's this guy's deal?"
Jill glanced over her shoulder. Most of the remaining CSU techs were either leaving or loading up their equipment, but there were still too many people milling about for her liking. With a shrug, she reached up to tighten her ponytail. A nervous tick that kept her from focusing too hard on the body.
"Not here," she said. "This is very much need-to-know stuff."
CHAPTER 6
As soon as Jill and her three former detective colleagues entered the conference room on the Homicide floor of the Seventh Precinct, she locked the door and closed the blinds. Though Jill wouldn't admit it to anyone, she was glad Captain Richards wasn't in. He was one of the last people she wanted to see right now. It was awkward enough being back in her old stomping grounds, seeing colleagues she never truly knew side-eyeing her. Especially the uniforms. She told herself it was because she had an FBI badge now, that there was always untold tension between local cops and federal agents, but something told her it was more than that.
Fishing through her pocket, Jill produced something silver the size of a quarter, tossing it onto the conference table after pressing a button on the bottom. It emitted a low-pitched whine and a red light blinked on the top. She smiled at the quirked eyebrows thrown her way.
"Signal jammer," she explained. "Never know who might be listening."
"Never pegged you as the paranoid type, Andersen," Stevens said.
"After being on the run from the cops for two weeks, I became an FBI agent, working on a task force that technically doesn't exist." Jill took the seat at the head of the table, unbuttoning her blazer. "Paranoia's practically a job requirement."
Jill's gaze immediately went to Blankenship. It was strange, not knowing where she stood with her former colleague. Sure, Blankenship had explained her anger as part of her undercover operation, but Jill wasn't so sure. Blankenship could claim it was an act all she wanted, but those blows to the back of Jill's head had sure felt real. One of the bruises had still yet to fade. Bruises were stubborn little things, even for someone with accelerated healing.
Blankenship's shoulders were hunched, and she avoided Jill's gaze. But Blankenship was sitting next to Watson, and unless Jill's eyes were playing tricks on her, their chairs had moved closer together. Jill filed that away to ask about later.
"Where's Ramon?" Stevens asked.
Jill smiled. "Enjoying a late lunch with his husband. It's the first time since the wedding they've had some time together, so I'm willing to let my partner take his time."
Especially since it was sort of Jill's fault they hadn't had their honeymoon yet. She had shown up at their wedding with a hell of a gift for Ramon: a new job with a massive pay raise, working for the FBI instead of Homicide in Baltimore. She had half-expected Ramon to turn down the offer, but she supposed the money couldn't be ignored. Either way, she was glad to have her partner—her best friend—back. Even if she did owe Ramon and Jorge a romantic getaway somewhere at the first opportunity. Preferably several time zones away.
"So," Watson asked, "how rotten was Councilman Franco?"
"He was more a stooge than anything," Jill said, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms over her chest. "At the end of the day, this crime syndicate wants access to the Inner Harbor. That way, they can get in, unload their inventory, get out, then watch the money roll in."
"And Franco helped get them that access?" Watson asked.
"At first." Jill chewed on her lower lip. "They kidnapped his wife to coerce him into helping, then when they gave him his first payment, they returned his wife."
Stevens snorted. "How fuckin' noble."
"Franco had experience in international diplomacy, thanks to a tour in the Navy and an internship with the Secretary of State," Jill added. "It's no coincidence political insiders thought he had a bright future if he wanted to look higher than the local level. And he's not the only one in this town, either. Half the Narcotics unit is on the Ukrainians' payroll—and that's on top of the ones in Gregor's pocket. We even have reason to believe Commissioner Saunders is involved somehow."
Stevens shook his head and let out a low whistle.
"Three weeks ago," Jill explained, "Franco made contact with one of our field agents. Said he wanted out. Didn't even care about his political career anymore, he just wanted to be able to sleep at night."
"Let me guess," Watson interjected. "He starts cooperating with the Feds, someone with the syndicate finds out, and... whack."
Jill nodded once. "That's the theory."
Stevens cocked his head to the side. "You don't sound convinced."
"Our intel suggests the Ukrainians bailed two weeks ago," Jill said. "No one knows why. No one even knows where they went. But all trace of them is gone."
Blankenship fixed her gaze on her partner, though Watson was too busy reading over his notes. "So, what do we do?"
"Ramon and I will keep working the Ukrainian angle," Jill said. "You all focus on the murder. If our proverbial streams cross, then we'll convene again."
It was so easy falling back into this mode, giving orders and suggestions to the three detectives seated around her. She had never officially been named squad leader, but Jill had acted like it without any pushback from the others. Maybe it was because of her relationship with the captain at the time. Maybe it was because no one questioned her skills as a cop. Even now, even with an FBI badge in her pocket, no one argued with her plan. Maybe it was because they had all been friends. Maybe it was simply because no one felt like arguing.
Still, considering most encounters between the cops and the Feds, in Jill's experience, often devolved into glorified pissing contests, she would take this as a win.
"You lookin' to get your superhero on?" Stevens asked.
Jill smiled in spite of herself, a rueful expression. It had been another stroke of good fortune that none of her former colleagues seemed to mind that she was the costumed vigilante Bounty. Just weeks ago, nearly the entire Baltimore police force was after her, but none of her old squad mates had joined the pursuit. They would've been well within their rights to, but they didn't.
That meant more than Jill could ever express.
"If I have to break out the leather," she answered, "then things are a lot worse than we think."
CHAPTER 7
When Hitori Watson lowered himself into his chair, he did so with a heavy sigh. His entire body deflated with the motion, and the chair squeaked beneath him—not because he was particularly heavy, but because the chair (like so many other things in this office) was old and in ill repair. The computer stationed at Watson's desk was no better, taking no fewer than ten minutes to fully boot up once the password had been entered. The BPD's IT department had promised new machines on three separate occasions, and all three times, statewide budget cuts rendered the promise moot.
On their own, the creaky chair and slow computer were no big deal. Annoying, to be sure, but nothing to get bent out of shape over. But combined with everything else – including the fact that Watson had yet to get a raise since making Detective nearly five years ago...
Watson tossed his black-rimmed glasses on his desk and ran his fingers through his jet-black hair. Whitney Blankenship took a seat at her desk, across from Watson's, and she studied her partner. He was typically high-strung in the middle of an investigation, so seeing him like this wasn't unusual, but this time was a little different. A lot of times, Watson would run his hands through his hair and sit back with some quip. But this time, his face was still buried in his hands.
Blankenship looked up, saw Jill and Stevens hug briefly in the conference room. When she returned her gaze to her partner, she found him staring back at her.
"You alright?" she asked.
"I'm old enough to remember when murder was simple," he said. "People would kill for money, for sex, for revenge. I’m just not used to this clandestine, undercover, international drug-dealing, dirty-cops, hey-look-it's-the-Feds shit. I feel like the longer I'm here, the more over my head I am."
Blankenship ducked her head and pursed her lips. The fact that undercover was one of the first things Watson said did not go unnoticed. It was an undercover operation that led to the wedge between them in the first place. An assignment Captain Richards had given Blankenship, where she was seemingly in David Gregor's pocket—though the dollars he paid her were quite real—and at odds with Jill. Blankenship had apparently been quite convincing—so much so that Watson believed the worst about her, even after the truth of her duplicity had been revealed. They were still co-workers, amazingly enough, but Blankenship feared they would never be anything but.
Hell, she half-expected Watson to request a new partner or a transfer any day now. Not that he'd make his disgust outwardly known, but his body language spoke volumes.
As did the fact that he struggled to look at her half the time.
"Too much gray area for my liking," she muttered.
A retort sprang from Watson's mind, but he bit his tongue. It was unfair to his partner, regardless of how he felt about it. After all, she had been working under orders given to her. Hadn't she? Watson thought he knew, but sometimes, even he had to admit his doubts got the better of him. If their captain said it was all over with and everything was back to normal, it was.
Wasn't it?
Then again... just how official was the mission? Watson wasn't used to hearing of homicide detectives going undercover.
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