friend.
But someone threw open the door to the parking lot then, a strong-arm invasion of winter gusting inside. Kelly Roberts and Grant Maxwell hurried into the squad room, still laughing over some earlier joke while they brushed snowflakes off their covers and uniforms.
Delia straightened, gripping the edge of the desk. She appreciated the jolt from the frigid air almost as much as she did the interruption. At least both gave her a chance to rethink what she’d been about to say.
Things she’d had no business saying. She was grateful for the growing collection of witnesses and the comforting hum of conversations other than the tape repeating inside of her head. The one that demanded to know why she was tempted to let down her guard with Ben Peterson. But most of all, she was grateful for all of these things that saved her from saying words she couldn’t take back.
“PERFECT TIMING.”
Delia turned toward the voice to find Jamie Donovan next to her as they sloshed toward the post building. Nearly soaked after just stepping out of their patrol cars, they didn’t bother sprinting for the door.
Jamie shook his head, spraying more droplets in Delia’s direction. “What’s with the downpour in January? Isn’t this supposed to be snow? In the Upper Peninsula where I grew up, this would be snow.”
“You’re not in Kansas anymore, are you, Toto? Here sometimes it’s snow, and sometimes it’s rain.”
“This is so not Oz,” he grumbled.
She had to agree with that. “It’s going to be a nightmare tonight. When all of that freezes...” She shook her head, imagining the work ahead for the midnight-shift troopers. That shift was the only one where troopers were partnered for patrols, and they would definitely need their partners tonight. “Let’s just hope drivers slow down.”
“That’s not gonna happen.”
“Well, maybe nonfatality accidents, then.”
He nodded. “Let’s hope.”
Delia smiled as she pulled open the door, waved Trooper Donovan in and entered behind him. She’d had an actual conversation with one of her fellow troopers, if weather and traffic counted as valid topics. Would Ben be impressed that she’d tried anyway? Not that she worried about what he thought or agreed that all of this “connecting” was necessary, but still. Who knew? Maybe there was something to his team theory. If it helped her make the right impression at this post, playing along with his idea wouldn’t be all bad.
“Nothing like driving through a monsoon—”
Jamie’s words cut off, and he stopped so quickly that Delia bumped into him. When he didn’t move, she stepped around him as she shed her soggy jacket. That several troopers were spaced around the room, coats still in their arms, wasn’t all that surprising given that they were all coming off their shifts. Only the superior officers, Ben included, were there with them, but out of place, lined up along the back wall instead of at the front of the room where they usually presented updates at the beginning of their shifts.
All of them were preoccupied with the tiny flat-screen mounted high in the corner. Even Gail Jacobs, who never hurried anywhere, rushed into the squad room, took a spot along the wall and stared up at the television. Without saying more, Jamie crossed the room and took a place near the a few troopers on the opposite wall.
Delia slipped into an empty spot in the back and brushed some of the water from her bun. Her stomach was tight, as if it knew something she didn’t. Just down from her, Ben frowned, looking as confused as she felt. The ten o’clock news from one of the Detroit stations filled the TV screen, a graphic of a state police shield and a photo of the Brighton Post building flashing behind the news desk.
Ben groaned. “It can’t be that slow of a news week.”
Whatever the cheery newscaster was reporting must have been a teaser because the station went to commercial, leaving them staring at an ad for basketball shoes.
“I thought we were finished with this,” Ben said in a low voice. “Don’t they have anything else to report on? A road-rage incident maybe?”
A few murmurs and shifting of feet prevented the room from being silent, but Gail remained eerily quiet, which was no more like her than hurrying was. She stared at the screen as if willing the newscast to return from the commercial break.
Delia rubbed at the gooseflesh beneath her uniform sleeves. Her throat felt dry. Something definitely wasn’t right. She didn’t know what was going on, but this wasn’t another follow-up on the bank-robbery story. The guarded expression on Lieutenant Campbell’s face confirmed her suspicion that this report would offer no good news.
Ben glanced from one officer to the next, his hands pressed to his sides. “Would one of you tell me what this is all about?”
Lieutenant Campbell’s gaze flitted to the screen and then back to him. “We’re not really sure yet, but—” As the newscast flashed on again, he stopped and gestured toward the screen.
“In a News 3 exclusive,” the newscaster began, “two Detroit attorneys have filed a class-action lawsuit in response to the Department of Human Services’s use of what has been called the ‘rocket docket’ to determine...”
Ben frowned at the TV and turned to Sergeant Leonetti. “You know anything?”
The funny man wasn’t even grinning this time. “Sorry, man. I don’t.”
A loud click came from the steel door behind them, and Trevor Cole rushed inside with Kelly Roberts close behind him hurrying to get out of the rain. Both paused inside the door to shake off their coats. Trevor glanced from the officers to the television.
“Another meeting of the Ben Peterson fan club? Who interviewed him now?”
“You’d think he’d get better at giving interviews after so many, but he looks miserable every time,” Trooper Roberts said as she slid out of her coat.
At the almost imperceptible shake of Lieutenant Campbell’s head, the two troopers stopped talking. What did some of them know that they weren’t sharing? Instead of paying attention to the conversations that were shrinking to curious whispers, Captain Polaski stared at the television, his posture so straight that he appeared cemented in place.
“Up next is our report coming out of Brighton,” the reporter said to segue to the next news story. “From the same post where just last week we reported on an incident of bravery and heroism comes disappointing news. What can you tell us about this, Laura?”
A field reporter, next to the big blue “State Police Brighton Post No. 12” sign, appeared on a split screen.
“Yes, Kimberly, I’m here at the Brighton Post, where an investigation is underway in evidence tampering and larceny regarding drugs confiscated during a series of arrests.” She paused, her expression becoming somber. “Sadly, a person of interest in the case appears to be the same officer recognized last week for bravery in a thwarted bank robbery. Will this be the downfall of a hero? We’ll let you know as News 3 investigates.”
If the others hadn’t been hauled into an uncomfortable silence, Ben’s gasp might not have sounded so loud. But in that vacuum, the sound pierced the quiet like the click of the magazine in a .40-caliber Glock.
“A person close to the investigation tells us that Lieutenant Ben Peterson...”
Delia barely heard anything the woman said after that as the reporter cited convenient, unnamed sources. She couldn’t pull her gaze from Ben, who stared, wide-eyed, at the screen, his arms stiff at his sides.
The urge to run to the TV, smack its power button and shout to anyone who would listen that the newspeople were wrong was overwhelming. And yet her feet must have been buried in ice. The other troopers appeared frozen, as well.