Galilee Rising(4)

Yet even though I embarrassed and cheated on him, my ex is first and foremost a good man. Too damn good. He was going to save me whether I liked it or not. He called the exact right person to come and kick my pathetic ass. Justin's Aunt Lucy flew in from Independence, took one look at me, and said the magic words: "Jesus. Looks like your mother's risen from the grave." One glance in the mirror and I had to agree. I spent thirty days on "vacation" at a private rehab center, slept for three days straight, and came out the other end broken but taped together enough to function. So yes, my name is Joanna and I'm an alcoholic. Almost nine months without a drink and on Step Ten: admit when I'm wrong. Kind of stuck on that one as from birth it has not been my strong suit.

I stop to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my face. My trip down memory lane has distracted me so I have no idea how far I've gone. Judging from the house above I've done a mile. Yep, there are the lovebirds. A man and woman stand on their balcony holding champagne glasses wrapped around each other. The woman throws her head back and laughs before the man kisses her neck. Their house is more modern than mine, all glass and sharp angles. With the house lit up I can actually make out their features tonight as I pant like a dog. They're both tall, her an inch shorter than him, though he's much bigger width-wise. His hair glows orange against the light, and if I had to guess her short hair is dark brown. I'd also guess they're newlyweds judging from the fact I've seen them making out on that balcony three times this month. They must feel me staring because the man turns my way, says something to the woman, and they both wave. I'm so mortified by my lack of stealth skills, I sprint back the way I came. Maybe I'll start jogging right next time.

Dobbs has cleaned up our aborted dinner and retreated to his domain when I return. I take a quick shower, throw on my pajamas, and debate climbing into bed and watching crap TV all night. The glamorous life of an heiress, right? But there's work to be done. Since I have become an expert multi-tasker, I answer the trillion e-mails on my BlackBerry as I go back downstairs, through the Hall of Pendergasts with all their portraits hanging on the wall, and into the living room again. I press the button under the stone fireplace. It slides to the side.

Justin Pendergast IV wasn't the only one to leave me his legacy. His alter-ego Justice did as well. Uniforms, equipment, weapons, and super-computer hooked into every worldwide law enforcement database, police band, and closed circuit TV in the city. It has programs that analyze trace evidence, faces on CCTV, along with hacking programs so I can get into any computer, plus a whole host of other programs used to catch bad guys. I call her Doris.

I move down the ramp into the dark room. Doris takes up the majority of the space with only a worn leather couch, rack of Justice uniforms in the corner, closet filled with weapons including stuff I never knew existed--the laser gun is fun--and a coffee pot. A literal man cave. There are two rooms that connect here, one with enough lab equipment to give a mad scientist a chubby, and the other a medical clinic/gun range. That's become Joanna's stress reliever room. I've shot a small town's worth of paper men. They had it coming. They're safe tonight though. I flop into the computer chair and start reviewing the log. Doris keeps track of all the emergency calls and is even programmed to recognize and record any suspicious or violent images she finds on CCTV. Hell, even telephone and cell conversations are within her grasp. Big sister is watching.

Most cases are easily handled by the police. Muggings, domestic violence, drug use are noted and archived just in case. With the bigger offenses she sends a message to a special BlackBerry. When I asked Justin why he had two, he said it was a work thing. He'd excuse himself to take the "call" and lock himself in his office. Really he'd use a secret passage, do a quick change into his costume, and zoom off to fight a bad guy. He even had a program to pump his voice into the room as if he was having a phone conversation. There's a speaker in his office at Pendergast Pavilion too. When I accidentally set it off, for a moment, I thought Justin had risen from the dead to lecture me on the Chinese markets. I was a wreck for the rest of the day.

Justice was mostly muscle, a first responder to crimes normal police officers could be hurt in. He wasn't the great detective we thought he was. The man didn't have time to track down every drug dealer and rapist unless they caused maximum damage. Seeing as I'm all of 5'2", now overweight, and prone to panic attacks, I take a different tact. I may not be on the force anymore but once a cop, always a cop. It's in the bones. I have every crime boss, enforcer, sex offender, and known supervillain under some form of surveillance. Every second of my spare time is spent down here reviewing footage, phone calls, and e-mails on my targets. My, or rather confidential informant #794's, tips helped stop a shipment of sex trafficked young girls from further horrors last week. The case against Oleg Casanov is still building, but my tips to the Feds keep making it stronger. And since I was a police officer for twelve years, I know what evidence can be used at trial. I'd give them the recorded conversation about the shipment but since it came from an illegal wiretap they can't use it. I simply guide them in the right direction.