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Stacy could feel her body scream. The burning in her lungs intensified, leading to several short coughs. She wanted to pull the car over to the side of 9th Street and sprint to West Superior Avenue to spend the energy that kept piling on despite her inability to use it.
Stacy managed to call Peter Banks in the Fifth District and asked him to take the lead on the Miguel Olivo murder for a little while because of a family emergency. During the call, she confirmed with Detective Banks that he had provided Kendall Jackson permission to assist her with the Colton DeVito case. Stacy had also tried to call Austin again, but the call went straight to voicemail again.
Chance had finally come home? Or had he? But the police were also there. Had one of Brandon Deerfield’s accomplices squealed during or after their arraignment about what the group was doing? With Deerfield dead, they had no reason to stay silent any longer. Gavin would undoubtedly offer them some type of a deal to get them to snitch on each other. Would that include explaining how Chance was involved?
The scenarios roiled her. Stacy felt her stomach lurch uncomfortably at the thought. If that happened, then the racketeering drug scandal would be known, and it would expose Chance’s role in it. That meant Chance would be a target of the police, and so would anyone else still involved in the group who wasn’t arrested at the safehouse that night. Brandon Deerfield never told Stacy if there had been anyone else involved. Knowing him, it was likely. That possibility also made Chance a target.
Stacy was facing sensory overload, and her mind was racing with awful scenarios. Traffic stretched through downtown Cleveland like long, flowing ribbons. The roads were flooded with cars, and hordes of people bisected the streets at various crosswalks. Her left foot tapped incessantly, and she gripped the steering wheel of the Camry so tight that her knuckles turned white.
She finally pulled up in front of Superior Lofts to find three Cleveland Police Department patrol cars stationed outside.
Stacy bounded up the steps. As she got to the stairwell inside, she dropped to one knee. Her breathing became more labored. She gagged as she tried to open her lungs up for air. The pain and burning made her vision hazy, but she managed a wracking hack that was deep and forceful enough to allow some air into her chest. The sound reverberated in the stairwell.
By the time she reached the top floor, the metal door to her loft was already pulled back. Stacy saw the frame of a tall, narrow-shouldered officer with his arms folded, looking down at someone. Stacy leaned an ear forward and heard the smoky rasp of her mother.
“He was here, I know it,” Melinda said.
Stacy had sauntered into the room when another cop, this one older with a square jaw that matched his graying crew-cut, marched over.
“Ma’am, if you’re a tenant residing in another unit, I need to ask you to leave.”
Stacy unclipped her shield and held it in front of him. His eyes slid left to right as he examined it.
“Actually, I live here, and that’s my mother being interrogated.”
At hearing the voice of her daughter, Melinda stopped speaking. She looked over to Stacy with wide-eyed panic and confusion. Stacy noticed her usually straight hair was in matted clumps and that her white skin seemed mottled and slick with sweat.
Stacy looked at the older officer with a disapproving glare. “What happened here? Why are you all in my loft?”
The officer pointed his finger at Melinda. “She called it in. Said it was a break-in.”
Stacy shot her mother a look and then locked eyes with the officer. “Was anything broken or damaged?”
He shook his head. “No, Lieutenant.”
“Anything missing?”
“No, ma’am.”
“How did my brother get in? Where is he now?”
The officer made a face. “Excuse me? Who’s your brother?”
“Chance. Chance Tavitt. My mother told me that my brother was here.”
“Stacy, thank God,” Melinda said, racing over to her daughter and ending the discussion. Her green eyes pulsed with worry. “These men don’t believe me.”
Stacy looked over at the tall officer, whose nameplate read Jamison. He flashed Stacy a sympathetic look and shook his head in disbelief.
“Mother,” Stacy said, putting her hands on her mother’s slender shoulders. “Tell me what happened. Don’t leave anything out.”
Melinda put a finger in her mouth and began chewing on the nail. “I came back from that nice store up the street with those pictures you wanted. The young man there was so nice. He just hooked them up to a machine, and they all got printed one after the other.”
Stacy could feel Jamison and his partner listening to her mother and watching them closely.
“Fast forward past that part, Mother. The break-in. What happened?”
“Well,” she said whimsically. “When I got home, I put the pictures on the coffee table, and then I went to make some coffee. While the coffee was brewing, I thought I would go out onto the fire escape and smoke a cigarette. As I got my cigarettes and my lighter, I heard a noise. It was coming from upstairs. It sounded like it was coming from the bathroom.”
Stacy looked up and thought about the location of the bathroom inside the loft. The bathroom was in the back part of the second floor, near a wall. The burglar must have been here a while, and she startled him.
“Go on, Mother.”
Melinda looked up and pointed to the ceiling where the floor of the bathroom would be. “I heard footsteps. It sounded like someone was upstairs.” She waved her hand in a circle. “Moving around.”
Melinda’s hands began to shake. “I didn’t know what to do, so I called the police. When I turned around after making the call, I saw him. I saw Chance.”
Her mother brightened at the mention of his name. Stacy was nonplussed. Jamison walked over to them.
“We searched the entire apartment,” he said. “We didn’t find anyone here.”
“That’s because he was scared,” Melinda snapped. “He was scared and ran off.”
“Mother...”
Melinda jabbed a finger at the open front door. “I saw him go right out there.”
Stacy looked over at Jamison and then over at the older officer as he spoke to another officer who looked like him.
“What did Chance look like?”
Melinda scowled. “What?”
“Chance, Mother. What did he have on? Did he say anything before he left?”
Melinda pressed her lips tightly against her face and shook her head. “No, I didn’t see him, but it was him. Chance was here, Stacy. I know it. He was wearing a dark sweatshirt with a hood and dark jeans. Chance walked like he always did, with a little bit of a limp and his shoulders slouched. The room even smelled like him when he left.”
Stacy sighed and closed her eyes. The burning in her lungs offset the headache that was forming behind her eyes.
Jamison adjusted his gun belt. “If there’s nothing else, my partner and I would like to go.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you all,” she said. “And thank you as well,” she said to the third officer, who waved at Stacy as he trailed behind the other two.
The older officer turned and pulled the heavy metal door shut. He gave Stacy one final look of pity as the lock clicked into place.
Stacy whirled back around to lay into Melinda.
Her mother held up a hand. “Before you say anything, he was here, Stacy. I know it. I’m his mother. Moms always know. There’s something inside us that we can feel when our children are near or in trouble.”
“Mother, relax. I believe someone was probably here, but whoever it was, left before the cops or you could catch them.”
“Stacy—”
“Think about it, Mother,” she pronounced, her voice higher pitched and shrill. “Chance wouldn’t run. He loves you, remember? The two of you have this special bond. He’s been coddled and had excuses made for him his entire life. Why would Chance run away from the one person who never betrayed him?”
An unease blossomed from within her. Stacy didn’t want to start a fight with her mother over an issue that had created a permanent divide in their relationship, but Stacy meant what she said. Melinda must have discerned some truth from it because she didn’t contest anything her daughter had said.
They looked at each other for a long moment before the cell phone in Stacy’s pocket burbled.
“I think I’ll check to see that nothing else was broken or taken,” her mother said in a quiet, deflated voice.
“Yes, do that.” Stacy turned away and swiped her finger over the phone screen.
Stacy loped over to the coffee table. Despite the thorough cleaning Melinda did in the loft recently, a thick curtain of dust had already formed on the coffee table again. One would expect to have dusty furniture when living in an old building on a busy downtown street.
She looked around the table. Nothing seemed out of place—until she looked at the corner of the table.
A perfect square, free of dust or other blemishes, stood out on the bottom right corner of the table. Stacy looked up and looked back at the door. If something had been placed there, it would be easy to grab quickly and make it through the front door undetected.
“I can’t find them, Stacy,” Melinda called out.“I had those pictures, and I can’t find them. I promise I didn’t look at them.”
Stacy swallowed back the tension and frustration building in her. “They were right here, Mother.” Stacy pointed down to the corner of the table.
Melinda raced over. “I think I put them... Oh.”
Melinda covered her mouth with a hand as her eyes widened with worry.
“Whoever left through that door took the pictures.”
Melinda slowly looked over at Stacy. Her hand slid away, and a slack-jawed expression took its place.
“Stacy, honey, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean... I mean, I didn’t know...”
“Not good enough, Mother,” Stacy replied.
Suppose Brandon Deerfield was right, and Chance had pictures of the police pushing drugs and providing protection for drug pushers in some of Cleveland’s seedy neighborhoods. It could ruin the department’s integrity and reputation. Worse yet, protecting that reputation could prove costly. And Stacy believed some of those pictures were on that camera chip.
Before Stacy could plan her next move, her cell phone thrummed.
“Stacy Tavitt.”
“Lieutenant Tavitt, this is Nate Fryson, with the Forensic Unit.”
Nate always introduced himself, even though his voice was unmistakable. His handling of most forensic investigations concerning homicides within the Cleveland Police Department meant detectives only received reports from him.
“Yeah, Nate.”
He spoke quickly and passionately without taking a breath. “I examined that postcard.”
It took Stacy a second to recall that she had dropped it off before watching the questioning of Miguel Olivo. That was when Miguel Olivo was alive. Stacy felt drained. All of that seemed like a long time ago.
“What about the postcard?”
“I think it would be best if we talked in private.”
Stacy looked back at Melinda as she kneeled on the floor, looking under the couch in the living room.
“I’ll be there in a little while.”
“Fine,” he said. The dejected tone in his voice had Stacy concerned. Nate was always wired and chatty.
“Something wrong, Nate?”
“Please come fast. Captain Bannister is standing next to me, and she’s not happy with either of us.”