Delta Stevens 1: Taken by Storm (13 page)

“If he imagined the van, Delta, then he also imagined seeing the license plate as well.”

Rubbing her chin, Delta stared down at the report. “I’d bet a year’s paycheck that the van is under the river somewhere and that Larson never saw the plates or the van.”

“So what now?”

Opening the door for Megan, Delta felt a ball of fear well up in her stomach. “Now we try to figure out what Larson is trying to cover up.”

As Delta jumped in the cab, a light rain started falling.

“Must we do so this afternoon?” Delta turned to find Megan’s eyes sparkling. “What did you have in mind?”

Scooting closer to Delta, Megan purred in her ear. “I understand you’re a pretty decent chess player.”

A slow smile spread across Delta’s face. “I’m okay.”

Megan purred a sensuous laugh. “Okay? Miles said you’re very good.”

Shifting the truck into first and trying to keep on her side of the road, Delta fumbled for both the words and the gears. “That’s because he taught me how to move my pieces better.”

Threading her arms around Delta’s neck and running her tongue around the inside of Delta’s ear, Megan whispered, “And I do love the way your pieces move.”

“Have you got anything for me yet?” Delta whispered into Connie’s ear as she sat glaring into the monitor.

Connie looked around before answering. “Maybe. Eddie thinks they may be a combination of numbers. Just what that combination is, we don’t know yet. I say give him a few more working hours, and we might be able to come up with it. What have you got on your end?”

“Not here.” Delta left Connie and made her way to the bathroom.

As Connie followed, closing the door. “What are you up to?”

Delta replayed for Connie her findings from the afternoon’s investigation.

“Storm, What in the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know. I’m telling you, Con, Larson never saw that van.”

Connie stared down at the computer paper in her hand.

“How do these numbers tie in to this?”

Delta shrugged. “We know that Miles was keeping track of cop activity at the Red Carpet. How Hammond’s death and Larson’s lie fit with the rest of this, I haven’t a clue. I’m hoping those numbers tell us something we don’t already know.”

“So . . . where do we go from here?”

“You and Eddie keep at those numbers. I’m going to go through some recent files and see what sort of activities Larson and Hammond were bringing down.”

Connie looked hard at Delta. “If Larson is lying about the van—”

“Then God knows what else he’s covering up.”

“Cops who cover up are dangerous, Delta. You watch where you stick your nose before you go storming your way into an informal investigation.”

Delta nodded. If Larson was purposely trying to throw the investigation into Miles’s death askew, she would have a whole lot more to worry about than just her nose.

The questions pounded relentlessly at her, and Delta could not push them aside any longer. Why had Larson lied?

Delta did not believe he saw the van. She did not believe the same vehicle with the same plates had been used in the second murder. So, were the killers in a different vehicle and Larson knew it? Did he purposely wait to call for backup and that’s why they escaped the net? Did he know who the killers were? The questions came to her so much faster than the answers. So Delta decided if the answers wouldn’t come to her, she would go to them.

Rifling through the files, trying to be inconspicuous, Delta pulled eight of Larson and Hammond’s reports and four of hers and Miles’s. Skimming over the reports, she realized that most of Hammond and Larson’s activities centered around traffic citations and auto theft. In the past month, no hard collar crimes, and no drug busts of any kind.

“That’s odd,” Delta mumbled to herself. How could they have no drug-related busts when the activity surrounding their beat had increased dramatically? They had just as much drug activity as she and Miles did, yet they made no busts? It made no sense.

Opening her and Miles’s files, Delta counted a number of drug-related busts and one big collar in the past month.

Delta grinned, remembering the major bust they made only a few weeks ago. She and Miles got a hot tip on a crack house that was getting ready to close in their area. With a little information and a lot of luck, they were able to collar the owner and five of his main dealers. It had been so exciting.

Just looking at all the crack that would never make the streets was their own personal high. A little over 140 pounds was wrapped up for the evidence room, and away from the grasp of children and teens. It was busts like these that reminded her why being a cop was so rewarding.

Shaking the memory away, Delta flipped the report over. Stapled on the reverse side was the evidence tag. At once, Delta stared, dumbfounded at the tag. “What in the —?” Bringing it closer to her face, Delta studied it carefully.

Instead of reading 160 pounds, it merely read sixteen.

“Sixteen?” she cried, not caring who heard her. “That’s impossible.” Slamming the report shut and cramming all the files back into the cabinet, Delta headed downstairs to the evidence room.

“I’m sorry, Stevens, you know the rules. Unless the Captain has signed his okay, you ain’t going in.” Delta glared at the officer standing behind the cage. He had his job to do. She understood that much, but she needed to know.

“Look, Trask, I’ve found an error on my report that may or may not be a typo. I can’t take the case to court unless I know for sure; chain of evidence and all, you know.”

Trask grunted and rolled his eyes. “What’s the number?”

“13496. I need to know if the weight is correct. See if it’s sixteen or sixty-one.” Delta did not wish to tip her hand completely.

In a minute, Trask came waddling back, grunted, and punched Delta’s name in on the computer. “Tag says sixteen.”

“There’s sixteen pounds of crack back there. No mistake.”

Delta felt the blood rush from her face. This wasn’t possible. Leaning on the counter, Delta asked weakly, “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Sixteen, Stevens. One-six. Check for yourself.”

Delta carefully watched the monochrome screen as it accepted her name and badge number.

That was odd. She didn’t remember getting a memo about signing in.

“Do you sign people in who just make inquiries?”

Trask nodded.

“Have we always done that? I don’t remember that always being the procedure.”

“Nope. Captain Williams started it a little over a month ago. Any more questions?”

Delta stared at him. Trask was very wrinkled and perennially grumpy - one reason why he was assigned the dungeon. “Did we receive a memo on this?”

Sighing loudly, Trask shrugged. “I don’t s’pose the Captain feels the need to explain his actions, do you?”

Delta ignored his sarcasm. “Where does the printout of that list go?”

“To the Captain. The night clerk prints it up and sends one copy to the Captain and one to records.”

“Thanks.” Taking her evidence tag, Delta ran back upstairs.

“I’ve got something else I need Eddie for,” Delta whispered to Connie.

“Name it.”

“I need to know whose names are on the evidence room list.”

Connie did not look up from her typing. “What list?”

“Haven’t been to the evidence room lately, have you? Captain Williams ordered that everyone’s name requesting info be listed on the computer. Is there any way—”

A twinkle lit up in Connie’s eye. “Now that’s right up our alley. We can tap into that line in nothing flat. It’s all in-house, and even if it’s locked, Eddie and I can bust in. That’s our specialty. But that’ll put these other numbers on the back burner for a bit.”

“Do it. I have a gut feeling I know whose names are going to show on that list.”

“What do you have going, Del?” Connie’s eyebrows raised in suspicion. Looking around to be sure no one was within earshot, Delta’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “One hundred and forty-four pounds of crack are missing from the bust Miles and I had a few weeks ago.”

Connie stopped typing and looked hard at Delta. “You mean—”

“That someone has taken that dope out of there and replaced our evidence tag with a phony one.”

Connie’s eyes widened. “More phony reports?”

“It appears that way.”

For a moment, the two women looked at each other as their own fears embedded themselves deep within them.

“Oh Storm, do you realize what this means?”

Delta nodded. “That we’ve probably discovered what Miles was after.”

Connie winced. “So his hornets’ nest has now become ours?”

Delta nodded. “If I have anything to say about it, yes.” Turning to leave, Delta reached out and squeezed Connie’s neck. “I’m afraid, my friend, that this could get ugly. I’ll understand if you want to back out.”

Connie did not move her eyes from the screen. “Hey, did Tonto ever skip out on the Lone Ranger? Did Robin ever leave Batman? Did Abbot ever—”

“Thanks, Con. I knew you’d hang in here with me.”

Turning from the monitor, Connie’s eyes narrowed. “Hang is the operative word. It was Ben Franklin who said We must all hang together, or, most assuredly, we will hang separately.”

Nodding slowly, grateful to have Connie watching her backside, Delta started for the door. As she threw open the door and gazed out over the darkening city, something inside her turned cold and hard, as brash reality struck her with full force. Deep inside, she knew what was happening, and it left her feeling frozen and ugly.

In her gut, Delta’s inner voice told her it was entirely possible that Miles was killed by another cop.

The shift had been long and miserable, with Taggart asking too many questions and making her a participant in small talk. When they finally pulled into the station, Delta headed straight for her car. All night long, she was overwhelmed by the idea that she was now involved in .investigating a cover-up.

Walking over to her car, Delta found a note tucked in her wipers. Opening the note, she immediately saw it was Connie’s handwriting.

Interesting stuff... Eddie, the brat, figured out. Meet me.

Delta grinned. Connie was good. Looking at her watch, Delta saw that it was only 1:05. She and Taggart knocked off early because he had a court appearance in the morning. This was just another fine example of his corner-cutting.

“Good job,” Delta mumbled, slipping the note in her left chest pocket where she carried Miles’s badge. Although the note might appear innocuous to anyone snooping around, it told Delta where to meet her and what it was about. Eddie must have figured out the code, and Connie wanted to meet her at The Brat, the bar across from the Red Carpet.

Genius.

Throwing a sweatshirt over her uniform, Delta changed into the high tops she carried in the back.

“A fashion risk at best,” Delta said to herself, looking at the dark blue pants with the black stripe that met her black sweatshirt on one end and white Nikes on the other. “Good thing I’m not looking for a date.” Reaching into her glove compartment, Delta took out her 9 millimeter and slid it into her ankle holster.

Walking through the parking lot, Delta stopped a moment and let the fine mist of rain fall gently to her face. It was a warmer night than usual, and the rain felt wonderful as it caressed her lashes and cheeks. Delta smiled, remembering Megan chastising her for chasing after hoodlums but not wanting to walk in the rain.

Her smile lingered as thoughts of Megan pushed out all others. Megan. She made Delta feel again. She felt that youthful warmth that seeped in whenever new love sprouted, and she welcomed it with open arms. The emptiness left by Sandy and Miles was slowly closing its yawning gap as Megan’s love and compassion bridged the wound.

Like the rain, it seemed to refresh her life.

As the mist tickled her cheeks, Delta sighed. The rain, she didn’t mind. It was the cold she didn’t like, and it had been a colder winter than she could ever remember. There were nights when even her thick leather jacket couldn’t...

Quickly turning her face from the clouds, Delta’s mind churned. It had been very cold the night Miles was killed. She remembered him turning the heat up as soon as they got in the car. That’s what hit her; the killer had worn a black tank top - a skimpy black tank top.

Very odd. With such an obvious tattoo, not to mention the freezing weather, he would have worn something over it.

“Unless . . .” Delta said aloud. “Unless he wanted me to see the tattoo.”

Delta turned back to the truck and jotted the note down on her pad. Maybe that’s why he didn’t kill her. Maybe the tattoo was a diversion like Larson’s report, it was a false focus for the police.

“How could I be so stupid?” Delta demanded of herself, slamming her pad shut. She was to attest to a tattoo that belonged to some no-named gang in the city that was supposed to be responsible for killing two cops.