Deadly Aim (17 page)

“I’m sorry, Detective Riley, we’ve looked everywhere. It was never logged in to our department. UPS is saying they have no
record of a package being sent. Best we can figure is that the clerk in Sunset Cove never sent it.”

“All right, I’ll check with the clerk here. Call me if it shows up.”

“Will do.”

After disconnecting, he went down to the basement to the evidence lockers. The temporary lockers were like those in a gym, and they served as a place where evidence could be signed in and stored if there was no clerk available, which often happened in a small town. That was what he’d done on Sunday night. When a clerk became available, the evidence was supposed to be placed into the permanent lockers, to which only the clerk and supervisor had keys. With the temp lockers, all of the officers had keys and ready access—he himself had gotten a key from Joe on Sunday.

When he’d checked the locker Monday morning and found it empty, he assumed the clerk had found his message and taken care of it. Big mistake.

“Sorry, Detective,” said the clerk, lifting her hands in a shrug. “I didn’t see your note and haven’t seen the evidence. I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Are you suggesting one of the officers stole it?” Callen didn’t even attempt to hide his annoyance. “Or maybe I didn’t put it there?”

She was a short woman, maybe five-one, but hefty with dark, short hair that had been heavily moussed to stand on end. She straightened and put her hands on her hips.

“Young man, I understand why you would be upset, but you have no reason to take out your frustrations on me. If I had seen your note, I’d have followed your instructions to the letter. I check these temporary lockers as soon as I come in and transfer the evidence to the permanent lockers. When I came in on Monday morning, there was no evidence in that locker and no note. Now if that means another officer took it, which I sincerely doubt, then I guess your job is to find out who.”

Her tirade had calmed him down as much as it was possible to calm down. Unfortunately, he couldn’t ignore the fact that every piece of evidence in a very high-profile case was missing, and he was going to cook for it.

“You’re right.” Callen frowned. “I’m sorry.”

Having made her point, the woman backed down. “This is a secure area, Detective Riley. People aren’t just going to walk in off the street. Still, it is possible that someone could’ve gotten hold of the key. I know this is serious business, and I wish I could help you. But somewhere between the time you packaged up that evidence and I came to work Monday morning, it disappeared and so did your note.”

At Callen’s insistence, they looked in all of the lockers, both temp and permanent. The package and the note he had written were gone.

Having no other option, he went back up to Joe’s office to call his supervisor in Portland to tell him the bad news. He winced as his boss lit into him.

“You should have brought it in yourself, Riley. You know how important this case is.”

“You’re right. I’m kicking myself about it.”

“The governor called me again this morning. We’re even getting pressure from the U.S. Attorney’s Office.”

“You’re kidding.” Callen released a long sigh.

“I wish I was. If we’re not careful, we’ll have the Feds on us. We don’t want the FBI called in for a civil rights investigation. From what I hear, the ACLU is already on the move. Brady’s not the only one whose job is on the line here.”

He didn’t have to elaborate. They could all be in trouble if they didn’t clear up the delicate matter soon. The public was outraged and wanted answers; they wanted the matter settled once and for all. They wanted Angel Delaney’s head or a good reason why she blew away a twelve-year-old kid with a toy gun.

After getting explicit orders in not the most delicate language to find out what was happening, Callen hung up and leaned back in the chair. As he put his feet up on the desk, he wondered what had possessed him to get into this business. It was funny, though;
he’d never imagined himself doing anything else since he was a kid playing cops and robbers with the Nelson boys down the block. He was always the cop. He wondered briefly what had happened to the Nelson boys.

His gaze went back to the picture on Joe’s desk. Joe, his wife, and probably a daughter smiled broadly into the camera. Nice-looking family. The girl had blond hair and a wide smile. She reminded him of Karen. An old ache burrowed its way into his heart, and to ease it he went into the break room and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Hi, Detective.” Brandy Owens and another officer were sitting at one of the tables. “We’re signing cards and collecting money for a gift for Frank Delaney. We were also wanting to raise some money to help Angel out. You want in on it?”

He took his coffee over to the table. “What’s going on?”

“You mean you haven’t heard?” Brandy asked. “Frank had a heart attack yesterday afternoon. And Angel’s apartment was vandalized. It was all over the news.”

He hadn’t heard. He’d spent most of the afternoon tracking down potential witnesses to the shooting death out on the wharf. Never had been able to find the guy with the sailboat. He opened his wallet and took out a couple twenties, then signed the card for Frank. When he finished, he pulled up a chair and told them about the missing evidence. “Has anyone in the department mentioned losing a key?”

Both checked their key chains and responded in the negative. He excused himself and went back to Joe’s office, stopping at the secretary’s desk on his way in. Leaning on the counter, he said, “Rosie, I have a problem. Can you get me a complete list of all of the officers who work here—anyone who’d have a key to the temporary evidence lockers?”

“Um—I suppose so.” Rosie Gonzalez had a smooth southern drawl that went down like honey and butter on a cornbread muffin. “Am I allowed to ask why?”

He told her about the missing evidence.

Rosie frowned. “Oh, Detective, you can’t be thinking any of our officers would take it.”

“Believe me, that’s the last thing I want to be thinking, which is why I need to account for all the keys in the department. Make sure none are missing.”

“I’ll check my files and make a list. I should talk to Joe before I give it to you though. I mean, I’m sure he won’t mind—just don’t want to do anything without his say-so.”

“I understand.”

Callen went home then for a number of reasons—to feed Mutt and to eat lunch himself. Primarily though, he needed to think, and he did his best thinking running on the beach or cooking up some exotic dish in his state-of-the-art kitchen.

Why would someone steal evidence in a deadly force investigation, and who would benefit? The questions burrowed like a tick in his brain while he fed and played with Mutt, ran on the beach, and rearranged his kitchen to where everything was within easy reach.

Once his kitchen was in working order, he sliced and sautéed onions, mushrooms, and garlic, then tossed in freshly cut tomatoes with the seeds removed. Into that he poured three beaten eggs and stirred, adding cilantro, salt and pepper, and shredded Tillamook cheese. With skills he’d mastered watching various chefs at work in restaurants and on television, he lifted the pan and flipped the omelet into the air, catching it easily as it fell. Too bad no one was there to see his performance. He grinned. “Hey, Mutt, did you see that?”

Mutt danced around his master’s legs, barking his approval.

Callen enjoyed showing off his culinary skills and even more enjoyed watching people eat his meals. Angel Delaney came to mind. He thought he wouldn’t mind sharing one of his gourmet meals with her. Maybe he’d invite her over sometime. He shook his head, erasing the thought. There would be no dinner with Officer Delaney or any other woman anytime soon. His heart still ached over losing Karen. He had loved her more than he’d thought possible. In their wedding vows they’d spoken the words “Till death do us part.” He’d just never expected it to happen.

He tucked away the memories, as he always did when they emerged. Time had taken away the raw edges of his wounds, but he doubted he’d ever heal completely.

He took his feast out on the deck, where he’d set out a place mat, napkins, silverware, and a tall, cold glass of iced tea. Mutt kept him company by sitting at his feet, inclining his head every now and then for a handout.

Somewhere between the first delicious bite and the last savory morsel, Callen had answered his question about the evidence, but he didn’t like the answer one bit.

T
hirty-six hours had passed since her father’s heart attack. It was Wednesday morning, and Angel had spent most of that time in the hospital with her parents. She seemed to have drifted into a fog, her mind refusing or unable to deal with the reality of the past few days. Those times when she did attempt to think about the shooting or her apartment, she’d feel as though she’d been dumped into the ocean with only a piece of cork to hold on to.

Frank was doing better. His color had returned, and there was talk of him going home in a day or two. He’d been placed on medical leave and wasn’t too happy about it. Angel doubted they’d let him come back to work at all.

Most of the guys she and her dad worked with had come in at least once, bringing cards, balloons, and flowers and trying to lift his spirits. Detective Riley had been in once as well. He’d told her he had some questions but that they could wait until things settled down. Then in an act of supreme kindness, he’d driven her to her apartment to get her car and had gone in with her. He’d offered to help her clean up, and they spent the better part of two hours picking through the mess. There were a few salvageable items they were able to put away, but most of it would have to be dumped—something she set aside for another day.

The media had picked up the story about Angel’s father, and for a while at least, not one of them had bothered her, not even when
she’d gone to her parents’ place to shower and wash her clothes. They had taken to reporting other events, other tragedies, but every day the newspaper managed to run an article about some aspect of the case.

In the latest, the one she’d thrown to the floor only minutes before, the writer had titled his piece “Angel Gone Bad?” He’d cited Angel’s exemplary work with the police force, how as a woman officer she had beaten the odds, and how she often came into domestic violence situations and helped abuse victims find a way out. “Will one black mark destroy her career?” he had asked. Although most of the article had put her in a positive light, the title more than hinted at her guilt.

Susan picked up the paper Angel had dropped.

Angel glanced up at her sister-in-law. Sweet and attractive, Susan had been married to Tim for thirteen years now. They had two girls and one on the way. Susan placed a hand on her slightly rounded tummy as she straightened.

“You didn’t have to pick that up. I’m sorry.”

Susan shrugged and grinned. “Habit. Tim is always leaving newspapers lying around, and I’m always picking them up.”

“Make him pick up after himself. He always was a slob. First Ma and now you.” She sighed.

“Angel.” Susan reached for her hand. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you. I really wish I could help.”

“There’s nothing anyone can do now but wait until the investi-gation is over.”

“And that could take a while.” Detective Riley sauntered up to them, looking like he wished he were anywhere else. He rubbed his eyes and lowered himself into the chair across from Angel. “I know this is a bad time, but we need to talk.”

“Right. You had some questions, and I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I haven’t been avoiding you, it’s just...”

“I know. You’ve been through more than your share.” His green gaze locked on hers. “We have a problem with the investigation involving you and the Hartwell kid.”

Susan patted her hand. “I’ll leave you two alone,” she said as she headed for the doorway.

Angel sat up straighter. “What’s the problem?” From the look on the detective’s face, she could tell the news wasn’t good.

“The evidence is missing.”

“What evidence? What are you talking about?”

“Your duty gun and magazine, clothes, and everything else that was collected in regard to the shooting. I put it in one of the temporary evidence lockers at the station on Sunday night with instructions that it be sent to Portland first thing Monday morning. The clerk says she never saw the note or the evidence, which means someone took it.” The detective leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, his eyes assessing hers.

“Took it? But that doesn’t make sense.”

“That’s what I thought at first.”

Angel stared at the painting on the wall, a copy of Monet’s “Waterlillies,” barely able to assemble the unsettling news. “But why? Who would do such a thing?”

Riley leaned back, his gaze never leaving her face. “You.”

Angel bounced out of her seat and went to stand by the window. “You can’t be serious. What reason would I have? The evidence would just tell you whether or not the bullets that killed Billy came from my gun. It’s not like I’m a suspect in a murder investigation.”