Free Gamma Blade by Tim Stevens

It was standard practice across the United States, and as far as he knew in police departments all over the world. It reduced the risks of one cop getting the wrong information, and also protected them in case of claims of brutality or harassment or whatever. But no partner had joined Estrada as she’d taken them out of the ER - the intern had appeared as they walked, and Venn signed the waiver - and toward the admin wing.
    “Sit,” said Estrada, without preamble, indicating two chairs on the opposite side of the desk. Then: “Coffee?” She said it like she hoped they’d say no.
    Venn and Beth both declined.
    He half-expected her to prop her booted feet up on the desk, but she didn’t. She sat back in the chair and folded her hands in front of her - Venn watched her fingers writhe, as if she was itching to crack her knuckles - and said: “So. Lieutenant Joseph Venn, from New York.”
    “That’s right.”
    “What you doing here?”
    She didn’t mess around, Venn realized.
    He said, “I already told your patrolmen. I’m here with my fiancée, Dr Colby, on a weekend break.”
    Estrada didn’t so much as glance at Beth when Venn said her name. Her small, black eyes seemed to glitter.
    “Never mind the bullshit,” she said crisply. Her accent held only the faintest tinge of Cuban. Venn guessed she’d been born in the US, or emigrated here at a very young age. “Why are you really here?”
    He gazed at her levelly. “That honestly is all there is to it, Lieutenant. Yeah, I know what it looks like. I show up in the middle of what looks like some kind of imminent rendezvous on the waterfront, and I chase a guy who’s just knocked a man unconscious. But it’s a coincidence. Nothing more.”
    Estrada continued to appraise him for what felt like ten seconds. Her face gave nothing away. There was no disbelief there, no contempt. But no acceptance either.
    Without breaking eye contact, she reached into her jacket pocket. Venn heard the crackle of foil paper, saw her extract a small square of white and pop it in her mouth. She began to chew slowly.
    Nicotine gum, he guessed.
    Venn spread his hands. “So. You believe me?”
    Estrada glanced away, as if she were considering. Instead of answering Venn’s question, she said, “I checked you out. You’re from the Division of Special Projects. Never heard of it. But from what I’ve been able to piece together, you’re kind of an investigator for political stuff.”
    “That’s correct.”
    “So, what, you keep crimes by big-shots quiet? Solve them and take care of them with minimum embarrassment for the perpetrators? Because they’re rich, and powerful, and the NYPD needs to keep them happy?” This time there was an edge to her voice, though her expression didn’t change from its customary sourness.
    Venn sighed inwardly. He’d had this kind of accusation leveled at him before, from cops within the Manhattan force and elsewhere. Most people hadn’t heard of his Division, which he was grateful for. He guessed the guys in Internal Affairs had a tougher time of it. Every cop knew who they were, and every cop detested them.
    “Wrong,” he said easily. “I take on cases the regular force is too scared to investigate. I get to go where money and power can’t protect the criminals.”
    Was that a shift in Estrada’s expression? Just a tiny relaxation of the tension in her face? Venn wasn’t sure.
    She placed her hands flat on the desktop. Venn noted that her nails were bitten to the quick, all of them.
    “Okay,” she said. “Take me through it. What you saw, what happened.”
    Venn didn’t bother protesting that he’d already given a statement to the patrolmen who’d showed up at the scene. As a detective himself, he always wanted to hear his own version of events from the person concerned. Not least, because he got to read the interviewee’s body language at the same time.
    And spot clues that they might be lying.
    He told Estrada, in as much detail as he