Free Delta Ghost by Tim Stevens Page A

same time Venn lunged and seized the man’s arm, the one he’d used to flip Venn the bird. Venn pushed the man’s rolled-up sleeve all the way up his arm.
    It was a tattoo that had caught his attention, on the inner aspect of the man’s forearm. An intricate one, done by a skilled artist. It depicted two snakes entwined around an assault rifle.
    It was familiar to Venn, and in a second he got it. Back during the gunfight earlier, when he’d rolled on the hood of the Honda to avoid getting shot in the face by the man who’d briefly abducted Clune, he’d glimpsed the gunman’s forearm. The same symbol had been tattooed there. He hadn’t registered it at the time, but it had been imprinted in his unconscious.
    Espinoza snarled and tried to shake his head free, but Harmony held on, grinding his face into the desktop. She hissed, “Drop the attitude, asshole.”
    Venn straightened. “Nah,” he said. “Come on. We’re wasting our time. Let Ramon here face the music.” He pulled out his cell phone, took a quick photo of the tattoo, released the man’s arm.
    Harmony slammed Espinoza’s face on the desk once more and followed Venn to the door, wiping her hands on her jeans. Espinoza lifted his head and glared after them, blood streaming from his nose.
    Outside, one of the detectives who’d been watching through the glass approached. Venn said, “Might as well wait for the PD. He’s not gonna give us anything.”
    “Okay.”
    “By the way,” said Venn. “Whatever you think you saw back there, you didn’t.”
    “Hell of a thing, nosebleeds,” said the detective. “They can happen out of the blue, just like that.”
    *
    V enn and Harmony made their way to his Mustang in the precinct house’s parking lot. It was five-thirty p.m., and the heat had crested the curve of intolerable and was beginning its slow slide into the cool of the evening.
    “Bitch of a day,” said Harmony. “What now?”
    Venn thought of the paperwork awaiting him. He could put it off until tomorrow, but...
    “I gotta do the necessary,” he said. “Let’s go back to the office. I’ll give the tattoo picture to Walter. He’s good at that stuff.”
    “You seen it before?” she said, peering at the image on his phone.
    “On one of the other guys we took down today. But before that – no. Might be a gangbanger symbol, might be political.”
    He’d do as much of the paperwork as he could stomach, but he’d make sure he was home by eight. Evenings with Beth were few and far between lately, with the demands of her job and his, and he wanted to take the opportunity. Plus, it’d be good to discuss today’s events with her. She was smart, intuitive. She sometimes saw connections between things that he’d overlooked.
    As he and Harmony climbed into the Mustang, Venn’s phone rang.
    “Yeah.”
    “Joe, it’s Kang.”
    “Yeah, Cap.”
    “Any luck with the interrogation?”
    “No.” Venn told Kang about the tattoo.
    “Can’t say it sounds familiar to me,” said Kang. “Anyhow, I’m calling about something else.” He paused. “O’Dell’s dead.”
    “What?”
    “Looks like suicide. Jumped from his sixth-floor condo a half hour ago.”
    “Shit,” said Venn.

Chapter 12
    A s Peter Franciscus waited for the electronic gates to swing open, he reflected once again that he couldn’t live anywhere in New York City but Staten Island.
    He and Marcia had bought the property, a five-bedroom modern build with decent acreage, four years earlier, when the real estate bubble had burst and prices were low. The location was ideal, with easy access to Lower Manhattan where Franciscus had his office and great schools in the area for the girls. Franciscus was a product of suburbia, having grown up in Wildwood, St Louis, and the noise and pace of the city wasn’t something he wanted to experience twenty-four-seven. Luckily, Marcia was the same.
    Marcia greeted him at the door, smiling, aproned, her figure still trim after all these years.