Justice (The Galilee Falls Trilogy) Page 7

  “But someone is to blame,” another reporter shouts. “Your so-called safeguards failed in this case. Who’s to say they won’t again?”

  The top of Myers’ head turns red, and he grips the podium so hard it creaks. He’s lasted longer than I thought he would. It’s sound bite time. “Look, we have the worst offenders in here. The scum of society. The freaks of nature. We do what we can to keep them in here, but we’re bound by law and nature. They aren’t. What the hell are we supposed to do when we have to mollycoddle them or be sued by you liberals if we don’t?”

  “And what do you propose, Warden?” someone shouts.

  There’s no way in hell I’m letting him answer that. I am, after all, his back-up. You don’t stand by and let someone shoot themselves in the head. The foot maybe. I step up to the podium beside the Warden. “I’m Det. Joanna Fallon with the Galilee Falls Police Department. I’m sure you have questions regarding this investigation. I’d be happy to answer them.”

  A few faces fall, but my old pal Veronica Lilley with The Galilee Standard smirks. She’s actually my first cousin, though we both like to keep that under wraps. I feed her information, and she does the same for me. Like me, she’s the tiniest in the crowd, with the same color eyes and skin, but tawny straight hair. Her hand shoots up along with the others but I choose her, as she knew I would.

  “Do you have any leads on how Alkaline managed to get out of his cell? Are the guards suspects?”

  “We are investigating every possible avenue,” I respond with the stock answer.

  “And how do you respond to the allegation that Alkaline had an accomplice outside the prison? Any leads to who that is, if it’s true?” V asks.

  “It appears as if someone picked up Ryder outside the prison, yes. We are asking anyone with information regarding James Ryder to contact our tip line. Next question.”

  I field a few more routine questions about the investigation, our suspects, how he escaped, with the usual deflections and vague answers. We might as well be reading from a script. Of course it never remains that easy for long.

  “The last time, Alkaline was caught by Justice. Is he involved in this investigation? Perhaps leading it?” the woman from BNN asks.

  “GFPD is in charge of this investigation, with help from the Federal Marshal Service, and will remain so. As of right now, as far as I know, there are no plans to officially involve a masked vigilante in the manhunt.”

  “But last time Alkaline was free, it took years to apprehend him. Justice was the one who did it. What makes you think the GFPD will have more luck this time?” the same reporter asks.

  Bait. These stupid reporters sure do know the right one to bring for a specific prey. My mouth takes over before my brain can stop it. “I want to assure the citizens of Galilee that there is not a single police officer in this city resting, and we will not rest until that murdering psychopath is back behind bars or dead. We will scour this city. Anyone he even glanced at will be put under a microscope. We will cut off all his allies, all his resources. He cannot run. He cannot hide. We will find him.” I look straight into the cameras, my jaw set. I hope to God that bastard’s watching. “Of that, you have my personal guarantee. If you have any more questions, please contact police headquarters or the Bureau of Prisons. Thank you.”

  I glance down at V, who holds up her fingers like a telephone, before I walk back into the prison with the others. The reporters shout their questions, but we ignore them. The voices end as the door shuts. The warden looks at me, wary and a little grateful.

  “Good press conference everyone,” I say with a smile before turning and walking away.

  I am in so much fucking trouble.

  ***

  My phone doesn’t start buzzing for three whole minutes, enough time for me to return to Conover and send him to the cafeteria for lunch. I barely ate at Justin’s last night and forgot breakfast, and my stomach throbs as a reminder of this. After a deep breath, I answer.

  “Det. Joanna Fallon.”

  “Joanna, this is Grace Pickering.”

  If there was a feather, I’d be knocked out of my damn chair. Not who I was expecting at all. I never would have recognized her voice. When she was out on the social scene I noticed her voice was higher, more girly, like most of the women in that set. I swear sometimes I can’t tell them all apart. Same hair, same clothes, same body, same nose, even same voice. You’d think Dr. Avatar fired up his cloning machine again. Grace’s voice is huskier now, and a little surer of itself. I guess a month trapped by a psychopath makes you grow up.

  “Wow. This is…unexpected.”

  “I got your number from a colleague. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. How are you?”

  “As well as can be expected. The police officers parked in front of my penthouse are reassuring. As are the half dozen press vans.”

  “They’ll be on you twenty-four seven until we find him. He won’t get near you,” I say with utter certainty.

  “Thank you. And how is Justin? I haven’t seen or spoken to him in over a year. I have seen the pictures in the paper though. He’s happy?”

  “Blissfully.”

  “Love does that to a person. I received an invitation to both the wedding and the engagement party. I haven’t decided whether or not to attend yet.” She pauses. “But, of course, I did not call to catch up.”

  “I figured.”

  “I phoned because I was wondering if you would stop by this evening,” Grace says.

  “I don’t know. I’m really busy.”

  “I promise to make it as quick as possible. I would greatly appreciate it.”

  Hell. I hope she just wants to grill me about all we’re doing to find her rapist, not looking for someone to hold her hand when she cries. I’d rather have a root canal than be witness to an outpouring of emotion. Though how can I say no? “Okay. I’ll swing by when I can.”

  “Thank you.” She hangs up. Okay, it seems as if she’s lost her manners in three years. I flip the phone shut. Now I’ll have to watch her press conference.

  Just as I’m about to clip my phone back on my belt, it rings again. “How do you people expect to me get any work done if I’m constantly on the phone?” I mutter to myself before answering. “This is Det. Joanna Fallon.”

  “Jo, it’s Harry,” my bed buddy says.

  As I always do when I hear his voice, I smile. “Hey. Please tell me this is going to be a fun call.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Then I take it you saw my stirring performance. How much trouble am I in?”

  “Minimal. Although I doubt Justice will be sending you a Christmas card this year.”

  “It kind of all just slipped out.”

  “Actually, I just got off the phone with the commish. He was impressed.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. So impressed, he wants you to handle the press from now on.”

  “Ugh. I thought you said I wasn’t in trouble. Why are they punishing me then?” I whine.

  “The general consensus is your conviction and passion makes us look good. They want you to keep doing that. You’re someone people can get behind and believe. Plus, you look really good on TV. Hot even.”

  “Why, Captain O’Hara, are you sexually harassing me?” I ask, voice sultry.

  “I doubt I’ll be able to tonight,” he sighs.

  “Darn. Guess one of my other boyfriends will have to service me then. Rudolpho maybe.”

  “Hardy har. So, how are things going at the prison? Have you found anything of use? Please tell me you have. Even if it’s a lie.”

  “Nothing concrete, but I’m convinced it was one of the guards. More than convinced.” I read off my notes, finishing just as Conover returns with my hamburger and soda. “That’s all we have so far. The other guards are on their way in, so we’ll see what happens with them. What about you guys? Having better luck than us?”

  “Not in the least. Just getting the usual stonewalling fr
om these bastards. All claim they haven’t seen or heard from Ryder since he went in.”

  “Harry, I really think our focus should be here at the prison. On the guards. We need to pick their lives apart.”

  “That’s why I have my best woman on it.”

  “As fabulous as Conover and I are, we are not miracle workers. We need to grill them. Talk to their neighbors, wives, even their grocers. I can’t do that here.”

  “Jo, I swear I’ll take that under advisement. Just keep up the good work, okay? Bye.” He hangs up.

  “They getting anywhere?” Conover asks.

  “No, we are the rock stars of the GFPD at the moment.” I reach across for my burger. “Let’s eat, and then call in our next suspect.” I bite into my wafer-thin, probably horsemeat burger. I spit it out and sigh. “I am officially tired of prison.”

  ***

  After interviewing the final guard, C.O. Marinello, I take a much needed break. We’ve been here for ten hours and the pot of coffee I’ve had has made me pace around the interview room like a caged panther. I excuse myself to the bathroom and splash some cold water on my face with a sigh. Some days I hate this job. Ten hours and precious little to show for it. Just an unsubstantiated theory and a sore butt. We’re done here.

  As I walk down the hall I pass the guard’s break room, the TV is playing a re-cap of the day’s events. Chuck O’Connell from Channel Four, his steel gray hair, so obviously a toupee, blowing in the breeze, stands outside an apartment building I recognize. He’s surrounded by his fellow bloodsuckers, all waiting for the delivery of fresh meat.

  I really don’t know why Grace called this thing. After she escaped, they were relentless. They tried to sneak into her penthouse, swarmed her like mosquitoes in Florida when she went shopping, even printed lies from ex-boyfriends. I don’t blame her for becoming a hermit. First the trauma of the kidnapping, then the media scrutiny and trial. I would have moved to Antarctica.

  “This is Chuck O’Connell, reporting live from outside the apartment of philanthropist Grace Pickering, whom you might remember as the woman who helped Justice locate and capture the notorious supervillain Alkaline, who last night escaped from Xavier Maximum Security prison. In just moments this brave woman is scheduled to make a statement regarding last night’s events.”

  The doorman opens the door, and all the reporters snap to attention, shouting questions one over another so not a single word is decipherable. Flash bulbs pop in tandem with the voices. Grace walks out with her pointed chin held high. She’s thinner than I remember, almost skeletal in her black trousers and pink cardigan. Her long golden hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail. She’s pale almost to the point of sickness with hollowed out cheeks. Her wide cornflower blue eyes appear sunken in. Concentration camp survivors looked healthier, though not as stylish.

  She approaches the reporters, and if she’s nervous it doesn’t show. She raises a hand to stop the onslaught and within seconds the pack settles down. “I would like to make a statement,” she says in a polished voice. “To the families of those who lost their lives last night, I want to give you my heartfelt condolences. You are in my thoughts and prayers from this day forward. I know what it is to lose a loved one. The only comfort I can give you is that with time, the pain fades. But I am sorry to say it does not vanish.”

  Her fiancée Chad Caldwell was murdered by Alkaline when he kidnapped Grace. I knew Chad a little, just in passing at parties. Nice, but a tad boring. I went with Justin to his funeral. They were in the same frat in college. He actually introduced the couple.

  “I would also like to speak to the people responsible for allowing this to happen.” Grace looks directly at the cameras, eyes and jaw set with fury. “To Warden Myers, Commissioner Craven, and Mayor Miracle I have three words for you: shame on you. You promised us multiple times that this very event could not happen. That every possible safeguard was in place. You promised that the reign of supervillains terrorizing our city was coming to an end. And yet, the incidents have gone up. It is your job to keep your citizens safe. You have failed in every conceivable way. So, shame on you. I am calling for your resignations at once, and I can only hope that other conscientious citizens do the same. This must stop, and if you cannot do it, then we will find someone who can.

  “And finally, to James Ryder, the monster who calls himself Alkaline. Please. Whatever you are planning, whatever you think you must do, please don’t. Give yourself up. If there is even a spark of humanity left inside of you, let this end. If not for my sake, then for yours. Thank you.”

  She turns around and the reporters shout more questions, but she ignores them, retreating into her building. Short, effective, and to the point. Wouldn’t expect anything less from her. I shut off the tape.

  Well, that put my conference to shame. Maybe they should have her give the updates, not me. For someone who shuns the press, she sure does know how to work them. The Mayor and Commissioner must be shitting bricks because if Grace Pickering wants them gone, they better have their U-hauls at the curb.

  The woman on that tape sure as shit wasn’t the Grace I knew. The Grace I have known since I was twelve giggled and went to the salon religiously. She never raised her voice or acted as if the world wasn’t as sweet as a bowl of marshmallows. Ryder killed that part of her, and she can never get it back. He may not have killed her body, but he sure as hell killed her soul.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Grace

  After dropping Conover off at the station to start typing up what will end up being a novel-sized report of today’s investigation, I swing by the upper-scale downtown neighborhood of Parkscale where Grace Pickering lives. A few news vans remain outside the gothic apartment building, lying in wait. I seriously doubt Grace or Ryder will appear outside, but if they did it would be a great story. Better safe than sorry, I guess.

  Our patrol car stands guard right at the front entrance with another down the block. The doorman is on guard, his eyes moving from side to side as if he’s reading. Scanning for potential threats. Grace’s last line of defense against the acid spewing psycho killer.

  The press spots me as I get out of my car. They’re on me with their microphones and tape recorders as I walk toward the door.

  “Are you here to interview Grace?”

  “How do you respond to her request?”

  “Are you any closer to finding Alkaline?”

  The doorman opens the door for me, then blocks the annoying horde after I pass. “Please leave,” he says before shutting the door.

  I don’t wait for him to call up. I walk down the mirrored hallway to the elevator. Impatiently, I press the button a few times, of course not getting the desired result. I still have to glance at the guard’s bank statements, run through some of the three hundred or so tips we received, write a statement for the press conference tomorrow, and maybe eat something and get an hour of sleep, and the stupid elevator is taking forever.

  The doors finally open and take me up to the penthouse. I step into the foyer where a boulder of a man dressed in all black blocks the apartment door. The gun on his hip is the next thing I notice, and then don’t take my eyes off it as I approach.

  “Det. Joanna Fallon,” I say, flashing my shield. “Miss Pickering is expecting me.”

  He presses a finger the size of a tree branch into his ear piece. “A detective here.” He waits for a response. “Very good. Please enter.” The boulder opens the door for me.

  Grace’s apartment, unlike her, hasn’t changed that much through the years. Antiques meshed with state-of-the-art technology. An armoire from the eighteenth century with fine crystal figurines has a plasma TV on it as well. Next to that, another black clad guard packing heat watches as I step in. We appraise each other as two alphas do when they come into close proximity. I don’t like this one. He makes the hairs on the back of my neck stick up. “Got a permit for that?” I ask with a smirk. The man scowls, and I know I’ve won the dominance match. I usually do.

&nb
sp; “Be out in a moment,” Grace calls from the back rooms.

  I plop down on the ten thousand dollar sofa and prepare. I get out my pad, pen, and sympathetic face. The guard watches my every movement with a glare. I know he’s just doing his job, but I hate people looking at me as if I’m a perp. That’s my job.

  Grace steps out in the same clothes she wore in the press conference. The camera does add ten pounds because if she looked like a gulag survivor on screen, she looks like one who didn’t make it out in person. Those size-zero clothes literally hang on her, and her cheekbones could cut diamonds. I’m no expert on anorexia, as my scale will tell you, but Grace could be the poster child. Guess after what happened she needed to find control some way.

  “I was beginning to think I was stood up,” Grace says with a gracious smile.

  “It’s been a hell of a day. I got here as soon as I could.”

  Grace starts pouring herself a drink. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “I’m on duty,” I say.

  She replaces the tumbler and sits across from me. “Something to eat?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  She nods then turns to the guard. “Arnold, why don’t you wait in the kitchen? I don’t think I’ll be needing you for awhile.” Arnold lumbers out of the room without a word. Grace smiles. “I think privacy is in order, don’t you?”

  “Pretty serious looking guys.”

  Grace sips her drink. “Arnold was a linebacker for the Independence Eagles.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Grace sips again, and settles into her chair, folding her legs underneath her. “You look well, Joanna. What’s it been? Two years?”

  “The zoo fundraiser.”

  “Right. I remember you spent the night talking to Clinton. He always did have a bit of a crush on you.”

  Clinton Bell, my stalker at most society functions. Good guy, but very dull. “Clinton is very nice, but not my type,” I say with a chuckle.

  “Well, we all know who is,” Grace says without malice. I still feel sucker punched. “Not that he knows it,” she adds.