Behind the Badge (6 page)

CHAPTER 13

It wasn't unusual for Jeff Downs to still be in his office long after the sun had set for the night. As one of the Baltimore Police Department's highest-ranking officials, he often worked long hours, even if his hours were far steadier than most officers and detectives. Still, Downs had gone the last two days without seeing his wife awake; he had spent the better part of the past day stuck in meetings: poring over crime stats, closure rates, budget reports... another round of potential layoffs and a hiring freeze thanks to yet another funding slash courtesy of Annapolis.

One meeting even touched on the subject of the vigilante Bounty, but no one in the Bishop -- the nickname given to the BPD's overall headquarters downtown -- seemed to think that was a priority. Normally, Downs would've disagreed, but once news broke of the teenager who was killed just north of downtown and details began trickling in, Downs knew something more important had come. And if his worst fears were right, this had a chance to send the entire city into a tailspin once more.

But to this point, there was nothing more that could be done. Captain Richards had given him the personal assurance that his Homicide team had it covered, and if half of what Downs had heard about Detective Andersen was true, then the investigation was in fine hands. The local media didn't know much at this point outside of the fact that Devin Buckner had been murdered, and since he was a minor, they weren't giving much out to the public. That was a ticking time bomb, though, and Downs wouldn't be at all surprised if he woke up the next morning to find it splashed across the front page of the
Sun
, above the fold.

But that was a matter for another day. Annie was expecting him for dinner, and he had best be on his way.

“Detective,” Downs said with a smile, his phone cradled against his ear. “Colonel Downs. We met earlier this afternoon in Captain Richards' office? Listen, just... putting this out there for you, but we have an opening for the Sergeant's exam two weeks from now. Are you interested?”

A beat.

“No, I understand. You've got a lot on your plate at the moment.”

Another beat.

“Well, take some time, think it over. I'll keep the spot open until you decide. Have a good night, Detective.”

He couldn't hide the smile on his face as he hung up the phone; Richards had spent the last three-plus years waxing poetic about Detective Andersen, and by all accounts, she was a credit to the force and the city. If half of what the captain had told Downs over countless drinks and even more hands of poker was true, the colonel looked forward to the day she could use her influence for bigger and better things -- like perhaps re-shaping department policies.

As Downs slipped his arms into his suit coat, he turned to see a woman standing in the doorway to his office. She was concealed in shadows, but Downs could clearly see the handgun she had pointed directly at his chest. He fixed the lapels on his coat before slowly raising his arms. It was far from the first time he had been held at gunpoint, but Downs didn't find it any easier with repeated experiences.

“Colonel Downs,” the woman said as she stepped out of the shadows. Her red hair stopped at her chin, and the smile on her face wasn't unlike those Downs used to find on suspects in Interrogation who knew what they had done and simply... didn't care. What bothered Downs the most, though, was that he recognized the woman. Not that he had ever seen her in-person before, but he remembered seeing her photograph in departmental files before.

“Who are you?” was all Downs could muster.

“I understand you had a meeting today,” the woman practically cooed, her methodical steps closing the distance between herself and Downs far quicker than he expected. His eyes followed her as she wandered to his right, before she disappeared out of his line of sight and he felt the barrel of her gun pressed into the small of his back.

“Lotta meetings,” he choked out. “Care to be more specific?”

“That
bitch
over at the Seventh,” the woman snarled into Downs' ear, pressing her weapon harder against his back. “What did you tell her?”

Downs rolled his eyes. “You expect me to discuss police business with a stranger?”

The woman slammed the butt of her gun against the back of Downs' head, watching as he crumpled face-first to the floor. A small trickle of blood ran down the right side of his head, across his temple and dripping onto the carpet. She smiled as she holstered her weapon, watching as a tall man dressed entirely in black and holding a ski mask in his right hand entered the office.

“Geez, Kayla,” Nolan Carter quipped. “I leave you alone for five minutes...”

“He wouldn't talk,” she said with a shrug.

“Well, I know just the thing for that.” Carter dropped into a crouch near Downs, watching the older man writhe and grunt in pain. “What do ya say, Colonel? Wanna go for a ride?”

CHAPTER 14

The text from Brian couldn't have come at a better time, just minutes after Officer Carter had stormed out of the conference room, undoubtedly to tattle to his precinct commander about just how unfairly another cop had treated him. Captain Richards would undoubtedly receive a call about that the next day, and Jill was sorry he wasn't in his office at the moment so she could give him the appropriate warning. But her older brother had unknowingly come to the rescue in that moment, a simple question about dinner on her screen bringing a smile to her face.

She had expected more of an adjustment period between the two of them after Brian Andersen had learned her secret. They had already been on shaky ground, learning to get along again after years of being at each other's proverbial throats. When he first learned of her secret life as the vigilante known as Bounty, the anger and resentment had returned. Fortunately for Jill, it was short-lived, and by the time the dust settled on her father's execution and the mysterious faction known as the Order was dismantled from within, they began mending bridges once more.

Now, whenever Jill saw her brother wheeling her way, the smile on her face was broad and the hug she flung around his shoulders was automatic. For everything the Andersen family had endured over the last decade and a half, she was glad to have her brother back. A quiet pasta dinner in the kitchen where they spent their childhoods was a nice bonus and a welcome reprieve.

“I don't know how you do it,” Brian admitted as he cracked open two bottles of beer and handed one to his sister. “Working the murder of a child.”

“The fact that our victim's a child isn't the hard part,” Jill said before taking a long first swig.

Brian arched a brow, swirling his first bite of pasta onto his fork. “I'm gonna have to break out the scotch, aren't I?”

Jill shook her head and managed a laugh, glad that they were back to a place where her younger brother's sense of humor could bring a smile out of her regardless of the kind of day she was having. She ducked her head and dove into her dinner, just now realizing she had worked straight through lunch. She was better about forcing herself to eat during the day than she had been in her earliest days as a detective, but sometimes the workload kept her too busy to notice her rumbling stomach.

“No, it's...” Jill shook her head as she poked at a meatball. “I don't like the direction this case is taking.”

“You found a teenager with a bullet in his head,” Brian countered. “What's there to like?”

Taking another bite, Jill set down her fork and let her fingers gently trail over the label on her beer bottle. The condensation was just starting to form, chilled beads teasing her fingertips. Every time she replayed her conversation with Officer Carter in her head, Jill felt her anger rising to a boil again. Even if Carter wasn't guilty of murder, he was at the very least a smarmy little bastard who could stand to have his nose bashed in. Only problem was, if Jill did that, she would probably fracture his skull.

Tempting, but... no.

“I'm gonna say something,” Jill began, reaching across the table to rest her free hand atop her brother's, “and I need you not to freak.”

“Jill,” Brian said around another bite of pasta, “unless you've got a new superhero identity, I don't think anything you say will make me freak.”

“I think cops might be responsible for Devin Buckner's death.”

Brain set down his fork and grabbed his beer. “Except that.”

“It's just a theory,” Jill replied far too hastily. “But... traffic cams showed an unmarked white van skidding through the corner of Madison and Tyson, screaming to a halt, and four masked figures tossing Devin to the sidewalk and shooting him in the head.” She shook her head and downed half of what was left on her beer. “Autopsy shows several significant injuries that occurred in the minutes prior to his death. Colonel Downs showed us photos of a decommissioned tactical van that looks a lot like the van used in this crime. And... when I spoke with Officer Carter, he was...” She shook her head. “Uncooperative.”

“Carter,” Brian repeated with a frown. “Out of the Fourth?”

“Yep. That's the one. All testosterone and muscles.”

“His record's not as squeaky clean as the Bishop would have you believe,” Brian explained between bites. “He's got a buddy downtown who hides a lot of his warts.”

“So help me, if the next words out of your mouth are 'David Gregor,' I'm throwing this meatball at you.”

“No, this is purely an inside thing.” Brian polished off his first beer. “It's not just Carter, either. There are three others at that precinct in on his little ring.”

Jill rose from her seat to grab two more beers out of the fridge. “How am I just now hearing about this?”

“Because downtown doesn't want anyone knowing,” Brian said. “Remember how shocked the city was when our office didn't press charges in Mendoza's murder?”

“How could I forget?” Jill shook her head; the memory of the protests engulfing downtown were as vivid as if they had happened the day before. The last thing Jill wanted was a repeat of that. “I thought this city was gonna burn to the ground.”

“Someone in the Commissioner's office withheld evidence from us,” Brian explained. “It didn't matter how many times the DA wagged her finger for the cameras, we never got the cooperation we needed to get anything that stuck. So the people who killed Pedro Mendoza walked.”

“And kept their badges,” Jill muttered, twisting the cap off the second beer and chugging. “You said there were three others with Carter?”

“We've only been able to identify one of them,” Brian explained. “Officer Kayla Stevenson.”

Jill frowned. “Where do I know that name?”

“She roughed up a suspect in Interrogation a few years back. Broke his nose.” Brian took another bite of pasta. “Once the suspect was cleared, he turned around and sued the city. Judge awarded the guy five million large and she almost lost her job.”

“Let me guess... same benefactor as Carter?”

“You got it.” Brian reached for a garlic breadstick, breaking it in half before dipping it in his marinara sauce. “I almost quit when we announced there wouldn't be any charges.”

“Well, if I have my way,” Jill said, grabbing a breadstick of her own and biting into it, “they won't walk this time.”

“Just be careful,” Brian warned. “If you're right, the blowback from downtown will be huge.”

“Then I guess it's a good thing I've got a trick downtown doesn't know about.”

CHAPTER 15

Just as Jeff Downs regained consciousness, he felt two sets of hands tugging on his suit and tossing him into the back of a van. By the time he gathered his bearings enough to notice the rust and the dried blood strewn about the metal floor, the double doors slammed shut and he could hear the rattling of chains being run through the door handles. Downs took a moment to catch his breath, wincing when the simple act of sitting up sent a burning, throbbing pain along the back of his head. He reached behind himself, feeling a small cut mark behind his ear, and he could feel the dried blood caked into his skin.

He heard the front doors slam shut before the engine roared to life. It briefly sputtered as whoever was behind the wheel forced the vehicle into gear, but before Downs could reach up to grab one of the metal bars along the partition, the tires squealed in protest and the van violently lurched forward. The force of the acceleration threw Downs back, and he skidded along the floor before his back slammed into the rear doors. The blow knocked the colonel onto his side, and though the throbbing in the back of his head had intensified, the pain in his lower back and the panic of the unknown were of greater consequence.

He scrambled to his knees, only to lose his balance again when the van lurched to the left. His shoulder popped upon impact with the floor. Downs yelped in pain, and he could hear laughter through the partition. He tried pushing himself back up, but the jolt of pain in his shoulder sent him crumpling back down in a heap. A hard right sent the colonel rolling along the floor of the van, smashing nose-first into one of the bars on the side.

His nose broke, blood gushing.

“Stop!” he yelled in as authoritative a voice as he could muster, given the pain. “Stop this van
right now
!”

The laughter on the other side of the partition grew louder, and several voices had joined in on the fun. Downs couldn't tell how many there were, only that the van sped up even more. The motor vibrated so much that the entire vehicle shook, and Downs couldn't believe this van was capable of such speeds. Not that he could tell exactly how fast they were traveling, but it felt far too fast. The van rocked from side to side every time whoever was behind the wheel jerked into another lane. Downs staggered and clutched for anything he could reach. The acid was churning in his stomach. Downs squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath to try and calm his gut, but every sudden movement sent bile trickling up his throat.

“BPD!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, though his voice cracked. “Pull the van over!”

A shotgun blast tore through the partition, the deafening
boom
sending Downs scrambling as the bullet zipped inches away from his ear and punctured the double doors. One of the masks peered through the makeshift hole before sliding the barrel of a handgun through the opening. “One more word,” the muffled female voice, the same one from his office earlier, warned, “and the next one's in your forehead.”

The next time the van lurched to the right, it seemingly cut through several lanes of traffic. Horns blared and motorists shouted, a cacophony of annoyance and road rage ignored by whoever was in the front of the vehicle. The van accelerated, even as it motored down what appeared to be an off ramp, and the tires hollered in protest when the van made a ninety-degree left-hand turn, sheet metal scraping against a concrete wall. The sharp scraping sound sent a chill down the colonel's spine and he recoiled, hands covering his ears despite the mind-numbing pain in his shoulder.

Another hard left sent Downs rolling to the other side, slamming back-first into the rusted metal. He grunted in pain through clenched teeth; he had tried not to verbalize the pain, so as not to give the jackals on the other side of the partition the satisfaction, but he was in so much agony that it was impossible. Rolling onto his back, Downs stared at the ceiling, his vision blurred by tears. He was weak, the throbbing in his head and shoulder overwhelming almost every other sensation. He barely even noticed the blood on his face, which had now made it way onto his chin. His vision was growing dark. He felt as if he would pass out at any moment. Hell, it had occurred to him this might actually be his last night on Earth.

On meat loaf night, no less.