The Tenth Legion (Book 6, Progeny of Evolution) (6 page)

“As you can
see, the door is steel, set in a reinforced concrete wall,” Lorna
pointed out.

Upon
recognizing the assistant chief from his uniform brass, the clerk’s
mouth dropped. Her eyes acquired an appearance of apoplectic shock.
In the drab, quiet world of evidence, with nothing but the
inanimate for company, assistant chiefs floated above the clouds,
mythological entities whose appearance portended events like saints
coming down from Heaven, cattle giving birth to monsters, or the
sun reversing its direction in the sky.

Lorna
attempted to break the clerk’s comatose rigidity. “We need to see
some evidence that came in last week.” Then she added, “It works
better if you let us in.”

Her frantic
expression passed from Lorna to the Assistant Chief, returning to
settle on Lorna. “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

“Check IDs
first.”

The clerk gave
a quick thumbs-up. In her excitement, she checked both police IDs
about four times.

Lorna signed
in the siblings under her badge number. “Where is the Fargo Bank
evidence?”

Relaxing in
the face of receiving a request within her comfort zone, the clerk
brightened. “Row twelve, section six,” she said in the monotone of
the safe daily routine where ethereal entities didn’t intrude.

“Got it.
Thanks.” Lorna pulled a slip of paper from a purse side pocket. She
studied the numbers for a second and put it back.

“There it is.”
Assistant Chief Durning pointed to a large box, and then reached
for it. “What the hell?” He hefted the unexpectedly light box to
the floor. The small assemblage observed the empty container with
various emotions, none being pleasant.

The siblings
turned baleful, demanding faces toward the assistant chief. He
appeared to Lorna at the moment as if the ground opening up and
swallowing him whole held more appeal than facing the consequences
of the empty container.

“Wait,” Lorna
said. “What you’re seeking is actually over here.” Walking to a box
on the bottom shelf of the next steel rack, she slid it out until
it hit the floor with a heavy clunk. Removing the cover revealed,
to everyone’s general relief, the documents stacked in sealed
plastic bags.

“I don’t
understand,” Thomas said.

“It’s an old
police trick. The officer in charge stores evidence in a secret
location if he or she feels there’s a chance of tampering or theft.
I had one of my most trusted detectives place documents in a
location we alone knew. I took this step after word began
circulating about the value of this packet.” Addressing the
siblings, she continued. “In the rifled box, my detective and I
placed blank paper in opaque plastic bags of the approximate weight
of your papers. The thief wouldn’t know he had the wrong items
until he got to some place he believed safe, outside the police
building, and opened one of them.”

Thomas nodded
approvingly. “Very clever. Excellent work, Lieutenant Winters.” He
fired off a frosty-eyed wink.

“I’m convinced
more than ever our property must be returned,” Karla added. “Your
most guarded places are insecure.”

“I’m as
outraged by the compromise as you are, and I’ll launch a full,
immediate investigation, but in order to preserve your property
while serving both of our needs, I have a solution that might
work,” the assistant chief said. “Suppose we move your documents to
a safe with a combination known by a limited number of trusted
personnel?”

The twins drew
off by themselves, not surprisingly beyond the range even of
Lorna’s lycan hearing. Lorna and Assistant Chief Durning waited in
concerned silence while a spirited, at times contentious,
conversation ensued between Karla and her brother. After a few
moments, the pair reached some kind of agreement. Turning briskly,
they returned to earshot. “Will the safe be in a protected
environment to prevent deterioration?” asked Karla.

“It can be
arranged.”

“In an office
where someone is present twenty-four hours a day?”

“We can do
that, too.”

“May we
provide a representative to witness the transfer?”

“Of
course.”

Karla
conferred again with Thomas.

Breaking
their huddle, Thomas said, “We agree to your plan. There
is
one more thing.”

The assistant
chief, relieved to put the problem to bed to the satisfaction of
all interested parties, hastened to answer. “Yes, anything.”

Thomas pointed
at Lorna. “She’s the only one on the police force who’ll have the
safe combination.”

* * * *

They
transferred the documents the same day to a safe just outside
Lorna’s office in the squad room, in plain view of at least twenty
officers twenty-four hours a day. A portable humidifier controlled
the safe’s interior atmosphere. Thomas insisted on personally
setting the combination in Lorna’s presence.

Five weeks
later, the trial ended. Within an hour of the verdict, Thomas
appeared with two men pushing a hand cart. In ten minutes the
pictures, letters, and all the rest departed for corporate
headquarters.

Having
predicted a year would pass before the case came to trial, Lorna
underestimated the power of the corporation’s influence on the
local judiciary. By the first week of February, less than a month
after the morning meeting with police and CI brass, the defendants
accepted a plea with a sentencing recommendation comparable to that
of a guilty verdict. At the allocution, the defense attorney who in
pretrial came out with a flurry flamboyant talk to the media on his
clients’ behalf presented a subdued manner.

“Not even so
much as a thank you,” Lorna carped to Mike over coffee in the
canteen.

“What do you
expect? They’re “brass.” To them, we’re wire brushes, to be used
and thrown away when the bristles wear out.” Lorna commiserated,
forgetting Department policy stated entry-level brass began at the
rank of lieutenant.

“Well, I’m
glad it’s gone. The whole time those documents sat outside my
office, I couldn’t sleep right.”

CHAPTER FOUR

O
n
Valentine’s Day, Lorna sat at her desk, casting a glum stare over a
squad room filled with a mixed collection of worker bees. Mike
chatted on the phone, probably with a woman, which made Lorna feel
worse. The irony—that his social life was better than hers—sucked
beyond all expectations. Since the breakup with Jerry, she hadn’t
been with a man, either socially or in the Biblical sense. Celibacy
was never a lycan’s strong point.

With ten
minutes left in the shift, the relief crew started to wander in.
The elevator doors opened. A delivery man in an olive drab uniform
stepped out carrying a long, narrow box. The gaunt young man paused
to ask Mike something. After a few seconds, Mike pointed to Lorna’s
office. With growing interest, Lorna watched the visitor navigate
the aisle past twenty curious faces. The purposeful grin on his
face never changed.

“Ms. Winters?”
he asked, upon reaching the doorway.

“Yes?” Lorna
answered, not taking her eyes from the mysterious box.

“Somebody must
think a lot of you,” he said. With a practiced flourish, he
presented the box as if it didn’t come from someone else, but from
the wellspring of his generosity. After allowing a moment for her
to absorb the ambience of the ribbon, bow, wrapping, and
presentation, he placed an electronic signature pad in front of
her. “Please sign here.”

Her gaze
returned to the box after she scribbled her name. When she offered
a five-dollar tip, he waved it off. “No, ma’am, it’s been taken
care of.”

Mission
accomplished, the delivery man walked with crisp gait toward the
elevator. At his passing, Mike stood up to head her way. Ignoring
her former partner, she opened the box. A dozen long-stemmed roses
from Thatcher’s—Florist to the Stars—lay in a bed of expensive
white tissue. Somebody wanted to make a big impression. The card
read:

Forgive me? Dinner at Floubert’s. Have CI info you wanted.
Car will arrive at eight. Jerry
.

Floubert’s
Bistro represented a good choice for keeping the “big impression”
moving in the right direction.

“From your
lawyer boy?” Mike asked from the door frame of her office.

Lorna looked
up from the card. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

“You be
careful around him, Princess. I don’t like the cut of his jib.” Use
of a sailing term reminded Lorna of the twenty-four footer they
once tooled around Tampa Bay in before his first bankruptcy.

“I’ll be
okay,” she answered, still reflecting on the card.

“Well,” he
harrumphed. “You might as well have this.” A single rose with
wilted edges appeared in the space between them. “I was all set to
use it to get in your knickers tonight, but Clarence Darrow stole
my thunder.”

Taking the
rose, she sampled the depleted bouquet. Before she could thank him,
he followed the deliveryman’s track, shuffling down the aisle in
the direction of the elevators and home.

A second or
two before he reached it, the doors opened. A blonde woman from
Robbery Division stepped out. Holding the door with one foot, she
kissed him on the mouth. Taking his arm, they stepped back inside,
leaving Lorna alone with the oncoming shift gathering around. Her
relief, a thin-faced human named Shackleton, eyed her with a
guarded stare while he sipped on a cup of coffee. His expression
reminded her yet again, there were no friends in Major Case, only
rivals, leaving her feeling even more grateful for Mike’s
presence.

Her eyes
returned to the tattered rose lying across the desk blotter. The
motive behind Mike’s gift dawned on her. Filling with emotion, she
fought back a tear. The cheesy remark about sex had been a
smokescreen. The gruff bastard knew she felt bad about being alone
on this of all days, and had tried to show someone cared. Twenty
years ago, such an act would never have occurred to him. Did
sensitivity accompany the wisdom of age? Or did part of the
Twelve-Step program bring it out?

She didn’t
have an answer.

When she
arrived home, she took a nap, awaking at six in the evening without
calling the number on the card to accept the invitation. After
getting up, she showered and dressed, putting on a green, sequined
miniskirt with matching vest over a white silk blouse, her best
outfit. Back during the halcyon days in Vice, with alternate
weekends off, she’d acquired it at an estate sale. The style had
returned, but more importantly, they didn’t make clothes of this
quality anymore—at least, not at the stores she shopped.
Discovering this was a stroke of luck.

Forsaking
cotton panties with breakaway morph seams, she chose a silky little
bikini that slid over her thighs, sending a tremor throughout her
body. She pulled on a new pair of nude hose she’d been saving.

Even as the
car drove up, she hadn’t decided whether to go. While adjusting the
post on an earring, she tracked the path of the dark limousine to a
vacant spot in front of her building. Its headlights made two white
cones that thinned out to nothing in the misty night air.

The Maglev,
together with clean-burning transportation all the futurists
predicted for the twenty-first century, had never arrived. The old
fossil fuel burners still dominated. Pollution declined because
there were fewer cars and factories. Fewer people, too, after the
Plague of 2026, with all of the dislocations that followed.

Still debating
whether or not to go, she waited for a full minute while the large
car’s idling engine burned seventeen-dollar-a-gallon gas.

“Oh, what the
hell.” She snatched up her clutch and draped a knitted shawl around
her shoulders against the chill.

As Lorna
emerged from the building, the driver snapped the door open.
“Evening, ma’am.” He offered her an arm. She ducked down, feeling
the way into the commodious dark compartment with her free
hand.

“I thought for
a minute you weren’t going to show.” Jerry’s voice came from the
black silhouette outlined against the opposite window.

“It crossed my
mind.” Earlier she promised herself not to take him to bed, but her
body betrayed her from the start. The best compromise seemed to at
least make him beg for it. Judging from his scent, that wouldn’t be
hard to accomplish.

“Well, you
still look yummy.” Smiling, he added, “I’m glad you decided to
accept the invitation.”

Floubert’s
, a
small place with twelve tables accompanied by a bar containing room
for maybe six, sat deep within the cloisters of a high-end section
of town. Upon entering, Lorna discovered the staff outnumbered the
customers. Rumor had it reservations were booked up to a year in
advance—a favorite of, as the saying goes, the rich and famous. The
restaurant used linen with real china and silverware, not the
plastic, much of it recycled, that had come into general use
everywhere else during the last seventy years.

A second after
they entered, a statuesque blonde in a black cocktail dress
appeared at their side to relieve Jerry of his coat and Lorna of
her shawl. Immediately, the black tuxedoed concierge, carrying
bound leather-covered menus, took over. At their table, a waiter
stood at attention behind each chair. One assiduously assisted
Lorna with seating, while the other limited himself to pulling out
Jerry’s chair and standing by to insure a safe landing. Besides the
humans, Lorna caught the scents of several vampires in the
room.

The table was
tucked into a secluded corner near the front, one of the more
desirable locations. A young woman lit a five-candled candelabrum,
placing it in the center of the table, and dimmed the house lights
in the immediate area before leaving. Candlelight danced in the
faceted crystal of the glasses, reflecting in Jerry’s eyes, giving
them richer color.