Con Game

  Con Game

  The Delta Stevens Crime Logs, Book 1

  Alex Westmore

  Contents

  Copyright

  A Free Book for You

  Con Game

  More from Alex Westmore

  About the Author

  Bonus Offer

  © 2016, Broad Winged Books

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or the author has used them fictitiously.

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  Cover & Graphics Designer: Mallory Rock

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  So you’ve just scored your very own copy of Con Game. Awesome! Hey, you know what’s even more awesome? I want to give you a present as my way of saying thanks for checking me out. Yes, indeed, I’ve written a free short story just for my newsletter subscribers. You can grab your free copy at www.AlexWestmore.net/Newsletter. Happy travels!

  Alex

  Con Game

  Before locking the last cabinet, Ben Friedman filched a small bottle of Quaaludes, and then slipped the keys into the pocket of his oversized lab jacket. He’d always considered it one of the few “perks” of being a pharmacist. After all, there was little excitement in mixing potions for runny-nosed children and grumpy adults. What harm was there in skimming a little for personal enjoyment? At least he wasn’t selling Valium on the side to neurotic housewives who had nothing better to do than feel sorry for themselves. He wasn’t about to play a part in that. The Quaaludes were for his own use.

  Lifting his hand out of his pocket, Ben turned out the lights and had started for the back door when he heard an odd thumping sound. Reaching again for the light switch, he jumped back as he saw a silhouette hovering ominously behind the unopened inventory sitting behind the counter. “Who’s there?” Ben asked, his voice quivering in the semi-darkness of the lab. Its echo came back at him like a slap in the face. As he hit the switch and the room burst into a wave of bright, fluorescent light, the silhouette transformed into a small, angular man wearing a black turtleneck sweater, black trousers, and a black seaman’s cap.

  “Th-the money’s already in the vault,” Ben stuttered, backing away from the silent intruder. Something glistened in the man’s hand, and Ben could see the sharp edges biting the light.

  Still, the dark ghost did not move.

  “I’ll give you anything you want,” Ben begged, backing into one of the glass cabinets. In the harsh light of the room, which seemed to illuminate everything except the intruder, Ben saw two ice-blue eyes glaring at him. They reminded him of shark’s eyes—unmoving and murderous.

  “Anything. Really,” Ben continued, unable to take his eyes from those lifeless ones staring back at him.

  Finally, the specter stepped forward, eyes riveted like two half-penny nails to Ben’s, as if attempting to hypnotize him. As the intruder’s right hand slowly raised the blade in the air, the demon spoke.

  “Anything?”

  Ben nodded quickly. The slow, even warmth of his fear spread down his legs, creating a wet spot against his brown pants. “Anything.”

  The much taller intruder raised the gleaming knife to shoulder height before coming to a halt. Questioning eyebrows now framed the cold, hard eyes as he pointed the knife’s sharp tip directly at Ben. “Even retribution?”

  Arms and legs trembling, Ben attempted a verbal reply, but he could only nod up and down, up and down.

  “Good. Then place your keys on the counter and you may leave.”

  “M-my keys?”

  “The keys to this cabinet.” The trespasser’s voice was cold and devoid of emotion.

  Reaching into his pocket, Ben slowly withdrew the keys and quickly set them on the glass cabinet with a “tink.” The sharp, watchful eyes frightened him almost as much as the blade hanging in the air like a guillotine.

  Without touching the keys, the specter looked at them, smiled, and then nodded, as if having a conversation with himself.

  “Go.”

  Ben lurched for the back door. Before his trembling fingers could reach the shiny knob, a flash of brilliance erupted from the hilt of the knife as it plunged deep between his shoulder blades and out his chest. Staring at the blade protruding from his chest, Ben looked up and gurgled. He felt no pain now, only a slow numbing sensation he often felt when doing drugs. As he gasped and gurgled, Ben slid down, scrabbling with bleeding hands, leaving a bloody trail oozing down the white door. Rolling over on his side, Ben tried to focus on the hazy face of death leering over him. Had he ever seen this man before? Ben wondered, his head now swimming like that time in high school when he first got drunk. With his life slowly trickling out of him, staining the white lab coat bright red, Ben Friedman gasped.“Why?”

  As Ben’s head hit the floor, the killer swiped the keys off the counter without making a sound.

  “You weren’t listening, were you?” he replied, staring down at the dead man. “Retribution, my friend. Good old everyday, garden-variety revenge.”

  Sighing loudly, Delta squinted into the night staring blankly back at her.

  “What’s with the heavy sighs? That’s the fifth one in as many minutes,” Jan said, as she slowed the patrol car through an intersection.

  Delta turned to her partner and smiled. Although she and Jan had only been working together a little over six months, Jan already read her well.

  “Is it Megan again?”

  Delta looked down at her hands folded in her lap. While she and Jan had very distinct styles and backgrounds, they had jelled immediately. The way Jan handled herself when they first met made Delta warm up to her quickly.

  “I’m sure you did your homework on me,” Jan had said the first night she hopped into the patrol car. Jan had to hop because of her diminutive height, and this made Delta grin.

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, I’ve done the same,” Jan said, adjusting her seat belt. “I don’t usually beat around the bush, so excuse me if I seem a little blunt.”

  Delta bristled, and waited for the ‘I know you’re a dyke and if you touch me, I’ll kill you’ routine. There seemed to be two genres of female cops: the very gay, and the very straight— few were in between. Many straight female cops wouldn’t have a thing to do with their lesbian colleagues if they could help it, and vice versa. Delta hoped that this woman wasn’t one of those who looked upon her lesbian counterpart with disdain.

  Delta’s left eyebrow rose as she waited for her new partner to cast aspersions. “And?”

  “And it’s no secret the guys think you’re a lesbian.” It wasn’t an accusation as much as a simple statement. “It makes no difference to me who you sleep with or what you do on your own time. My main concern is that you and I get home to our families, whoever they may be, at the end of every shift.”

  “Then it won’t bother you to be in a car with a lesbian for ten hours a night?”

  Jan laughed. “Only if you don’t use deodorant.” And that was the end of that.

  Now staring at Jan’s profile, Delta felt pleased. True to her word, Jan neither judged nor condemned Delta’s lifestyle.

  “Yeah, it’s Megan,” Delta said, se
ttling back into the seat, and gazing out the window into the dark of the night. To Delta, the earth held two coexisting realities: one of the day, where business and industry boomed and people functioned like parts of an enormous clock, and one of the night, where shadows cast irregular dimensions on homeless souls who roamed aimlessly through the darkness. For the night creatures, those who reminded her of vampires and other night-crawlers who carefully picked through the endless alleyways and deserted parking lots, time held little import and the major industry was one of either staying alive or finding personal enjoyment.

  It was the personal enjoyment industry that Megan had been a part of. Her life had consisted of lying on her back and collecting money from men who paid for a service most men got for free. Only recently had Megan quit her “night” job for a position in the bookstore at the university, where she was finishing up her business degree. For that, Delta was very grateful. The thought of Megan turning tricks nauseated her, not to mention the dangers of being a prostitute. But Megan had left that life, and the night people with it, far behind.

  “How was Mark’s game yesterday?” Delta asked, changing the subject.

  “He had two hits and stole a base. . .”

  Delta waited for the “but.” Mark was one of those little boys who possessed more heart than talent.

  “But he made two errors at second.”

  Delta nodded thoughtfully. Right from the start, she had liked Jan’s kids. They were well-behaved, respectful, and loved sports. Delta had even gone to a few Little League games and actually enjoyed herself. Delta’s understanding of and respect for Jan, the mother, had grown at the very first game.

  They were sitting in the stands with the other mothers, while Jan’s husband Dennis coached first and her oldest boy, Mark, was playing second. Mariah, who was eight, was climbing one of the larger trees overhanging the creek, and Justin stood in front of them, his two little arms covered to the elbows in mud, showing his mother the frogs he had caught.

  Jan didn’t miss a thing; she somehow managed to admire the frogs, tell Mariah to stop acting like a monkey, and clap when Mark fielded a ground ball cleanly—while ignoring what some other mother was saying about her son never getting a chance to play. It surprised Delta to realize that being a good mother and being a good cop took many of the same skills

  “I’m afraid Mark’s a little too preoccupied to be an infielder, but

  Dennis won’t see it,” Jan explained, driving down one of the more well-lit areas of their beat.

  “I told you. His glove’s too big, that’s all. Dennis should get him a smaller glove if he wants him to be an infielder. Second basemen always have smaller gloves.”

  Jan nodded. “Think Dennis would know if I slipped Mark a new one?”

  Delta laughed. Jan was always playing games with her husband. Fooling each other seemed to keep their twelve-year marriage fresh and lively. Once, when Dennis made Jan’s lunch, he included a trick hard-boiled egg that couldn’t be peeled. Delta laughed until her sides ached when Jan cut the egg open, only to find the damn thing was made of rubber.

  The radio suddenly jumped to life. “S-10-12, what’s your twenty?” Delta picked up the mike and cleared her throat before answering.

  “This is S-10-12. We’re heading south on Steinbeck.”

  “S-10-12, 10-25 to 1515 Stein Way. The Leather and Lace bar.” The call was a backup to a popular biker bar well-known for its violent patrons and “accidental” stabbings. Delta requested information about the conditions at the scene. “Could you 10-13 us on that one?” she asked calmly, as Jan drove them up Steinbeck.

  “S-10-12, we have a 4-18 with a possible 10-31 involved. Be advised, T-14-18 and S-10-20 are at the scene.”

  Switching on the lights, Delta jotted the info on her notepad. They would be arriving as the third backup unit at a bar where some customers were fighting; and one possibly had an arrest record. Knowing that sort of information was vital prior to becoming a part of it. They would need to approach the situation more cautiously; someone with an arrest record was often more desperate than someone who had drunk a little too much and was just acting up. An ex-con not wanting to go back to jail could become extremely hostile in an instant. After all, they knew where they would be going, and would do what it took not to be sent back.

  As they pulled into the jammed parking lot, Delta picked up the mike and notified dispatch that they had arrived. Before she could hang up, Jan was already out the door and standing with four other patrol-men. Standing next to the men made Jan appear like a midget, as their bulkiness overshadowed her five-foot-three frame. Jan’s petite build often made people underestimate her, but Delta had seen Jan in action and knew her to be every bit as capable of tossing a large man to the ground as were those four male cops. The thought made Delta proud to be her partner.

  Striding up to the officers, Delta’s own five-nine build was a match for all but one of the men, who towered well over six-four. “Whatcha got?” Delta asked, eyeing a biker who had just slunk from the bar.

  “Buncha fuckin’ dirtbags can’t even drink in peace,” one of the cops answered.

  “They oughtta shut this dive down,” came Officer Johnson’s baritone. “We bust our humps on this place a couple of times a week. I’m sick of it.”

  Delta glanced over at Hank “Downtown” Brown, so nicknamed thanks to his quick and constant threats of taking suspects downtown if they weren’t cooperative. One of the meanest cops she’d ever met, he had a reputation for fast hands, swift batons, and a quick temper. Although she had never worked with him as a partner, she’d seen him in action more times than she cared to count.

  “Let’s just kick some ass and get the hell out of here,” came Brown’s infamous line. He settled everything as if he were some outlaw sheriff in the Wild West.

  “Bartender says there are about twenty of them inside, all spoiling for a fight.”

  Brown looked around the group. “That evens up the odds.”

  Delta and Jan exchanged glances that did not go unnoticed by Brown’s partner, Highbaugh. Delta had gone to the Academy with Highbaugh and he turned out to be a good cop. She couldn’t imagine how he could stand to be Brown’s partner.

  “You two can stay outside if you’d like,” Highbaugh offered. Delta resisted the urge to crack him over the head. Even with her incredible arrest record, she was amazed at how many of “the guys” still treated her like a woman first, and a colleague second. While she used to get angry, now Delta only shook her head at their profound ignorance and wondered if things would ever really change.

  “No thanks,” she answered, squaring her shoulders. “Someone has to go in there and make sure you guys remember which side you’re on.”

  Delta glanced at the front door as the four male cops donned black leather gloves. Because of the A.I.D.S. scare, most cops wore black leather gloves as part of their uniform. But these cops wore gloves for a different reason: so there would be no marks on their knuckles should they be investigated for misuse of authority. Since the Rodney King beating, cops everywhere were sensitive to the cry of police brutality. These four were sensitive only about getting caught. Delta had no use for cops with the “bust their heads open” mentality, but clearly, the city was still hiring them. A year and a half ago, when Delta had hunted down the murderous cops who had killed her first partner, Delta wore her reputation like a badge. Relentlessly, she had pursued the cops responsible for the death of Miles Brookman, the only man she had ever truly trusted. Maybe the only man she had ever loved. Most of the law enforcement personnel within a hundred miles of River Valley knew about this—and the fact that Delta Stevens was one cop you didn’t mess with. Her loyalties and her integrity ran deep enough for her to take on more than most people could ever dream of handling.

  “Let’s do it,” Downtown Brown said.

  Jan looked at Delta and shrugged. “You ever get the feeling they forget the protect part of the `protect and serve’ motto?”

 
Grinning, Delta hiked up her utility belt and followed the men into

  the bar. Once inside, Delta realized that the entire fracas, if there was one, had ended. The only residue from the fight, if there had been one, were two heavy-set, bearded bikers arm wrestling with great vigor surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd.

  “Damn. We’re too late,” Brown cursed, eyeing the crowd.

  Delta walked up beside him and patted his shoulder. “It’s okay, Hank. I’m sure you’ll get another call tonight that will give you a reason to bash someone’s head in.”

  “Funny, Stevens. Just ’cause you like everything nice and tidy on that snoozer of a beat of yours doesn’t mean the rest of us want to die of boredom, too. I go where the action is.”

  Delta’s right eyebrow shot up in a cynical curve. “And if there isn’t any, you make some of your own?”

  Brown huffed at her and started to turn away, when something caught his eye.

  “Hey, Glen,” he called, motioning to his partner. “Is that what I think it is?”

  Delta looked where Brown was pointing and saw what had caught his attention. Underneath the huge arm of one of the arm wrestlers sat a butterfly knife; popular blades among the biker crowd because they were easy to conceal. They were also as illegal as hell. She knew more cops who had been cut by butterflies than by any other blade.

  “Come on, Hank, don’t make a big issue of it. Just confiscate it and leave him alone,” Delta said, hoping to divert an unnecessary confrontation. “We don’t need to start what we came here to prevent.”

  Hank turned and smiled at Delta. He was a towering monster of a man and used every inch of his stature to intimidate others. Delta, however, didn’t intimidate easily. Brown sneered, “Watch a real pro, Stevens.”

  Before Delta could stop him, Downtown sauntered over to the two