Free Delta Ghost by Tim Stevens

the Ninth Avenue precinct house an hour later, after stopping by his townhouse in the Upper West Side to change his clothes. This time he put on a light cotton summer jacket. Beth was always encouraging him to dress like that - you look more like a cop, and less like a gangster , she said - but without his leather coat he felt exposed, vulnerable, as if bullets could actually hurt him.
    On the dresser he found a note from Beth. He’d left before her, this morning, while she was still asleep after a late shift at the hospital. Even in this age of text messages, she liked to leave old-fashioned handwritten notes. It read: Home by 8 pm. Thai takeout OK? Love you.
    Venn smiled, put the note in his pocket.
    The precinct house swarmed. Venn guessed they hadn’t had a multiple shooting like this for a while. His shield got him past the harassed desk sergeant in quick time and he found Harmony in a side room, talking with a couple of plainclothes detectives.
    “Everything okay?” she said, eyeing him with concern.
    “O’Dell wanted to plea-bargain, giving up Kruger. I spoilt his day when I told him we knew about the guy, and that he was already dead.”  Venn gestured at the door. “We ready to do this guy?”
    The prisoner was seated in an eight-by-ten interview room with a two-way mirror on one wall. His left shoulder was bandaged where Venn had winged him with the Beretta. Whatever influence Captain Kang had exerted, it left Venn and Harmony doing the interrogation with the local detectives watching through the mirror.
    The guy’s name was Ramon Jesus Espinoza, and he was a Mexican national. They knew this from the Seasonal Agricultural Worker visa he’d produced. It was, Venn thought, probably forged. Other than that, he’d volunteered nothing so far. He hunched over the scarred table, his fingers splayed on the surface, and stared at the wall opposite.
    “Ramon,” said Venn. “You’re asking for a lawyer, I hear. But I somehow doubt you have an attorney of your own waiting on your call, and the Public Defender’s office is jammed up. It’ll take a couple of hours, minimum, before a PD arrives. Then, they’ll have to brief themselves about your case. Another thirty minutes. Now, you may not give a shit about that. You may think the delay will work to your advantage. Allow you more time to come up with whatever bullshit cover story you’re concocting.”
    Venn was seated across the table from Espinoza, just as he had been a short while earlier from O’Dell. Harmony lounged against the wall near the door, her arms folded. Before going in, Venn had asked the other detectives if Espinoza had been told what happened to his three comrades, namely that they’d all been killed. The detectives said he hadn’t.
    So Venn decided on a bluff.
    He said, “But here’s the thing, Ramon. You’re facing more felony charges than there are crabs in a hooker’s panties. You’re going to jail, and I don’t mean some rinky-dink hotel out in the boondocks. I mean Rikers. Attempted murder of a police officer. Hostage-taking. The rest of your life will make Purgatory seem like a party, and hell like a mild hangover afterwards.” He paused. “Now, one of your buddies got away. He took the young British guy, and he’s disappeared. I assume the kid is going to be killed, probably after being worked over till he’s begging for death. It may be too late for him. But if you tell us where the kid is, tell us right now , before you lawyer up, it may buy you some appreciation. It could mean a reduced sentence.”
    Espinoza was still staring at the wall, but he appeared to be listening. Slowly, he turned his head and gazed at Venn thoughtfully.
    He raised a middle finger and said, “Kiss my ass.”
    Venn returned his stare for a few seconds. Then he signaled Harmony with a flick of his fingers.
    She leaped forward as if propelled by a spring-load mechanism and grabbed Espinoza by the hair and slammed his face down on the desk. At the