Page 44 of More Than a Hero
“This has already hit the news,” Terry announced grimly, his voice edged with frustration.
Pete let out a slow breath and shook his head, glancing at Jeremy, who sat at the desk beside him. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, rubbing his temples.
Jeremy barely looked up as he addressed their superiors. “Please tell me you’re not going to make us do an interview.”
Terry shook his head. “No, not at all. The media relations officer is handling that. But we need a picture of the haul.”
Pete exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “Fine. Just don’t expect me to be in it.”
“Agreed.” Terry crossed his arms, his expression darkening. “The Virginia Beach newspaper, as well as the local publication, wanted a full spread—with the drugs laid out and officers standing behind. But I told them no way in hell. I’m not putting my people on display like that. Once this hits national news and the TV stations, I don’t want any of you becoming the next target for some cartel looking to make an example.”
Pete nodded, a weight lifting from his chest. It wasn’t paranoia… it was reality. Drug gangs didn’t take kindly to law enforcement seizing their product. “Appreciate that, Captain,” he said, offering a grateful chin lift toward Colt. “You too.”
Colt gave a firm nod, the silent understanding between them heavy with unspoken truths.
They kept the media away from the evidence room. Instead, the confiscated bags were stacked on a table against a blank wall. Pete and Jeremy moved to the back of the room with other officers, blending into the shadows as the reporters were ushered in. Before cameras flashed, Colt took the lead, setting strict boundaries on what they could and couldn’t do.
Pete didn’t let his guard down for a second, watching the reporters like a hawk. He didn’t trust them. Not because they were the enemy but because information had a way of slipping through cracks, and if the wrong people got their hands on it, someone could end up dead.
Terry answered questions in clipped, practiced tones, offering nothing of real substance. “The investigation is ongoing,” he said more than once. That was all the press was getting.
As soon as the reporters left, the tension in the room eased. Jeremy and Pete stayed behind with the evidence officer, ensuring every last bag was logged and secured before finally heading back to their desks.
The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Pete tapped at his keyboard, the familiar monotony of report writing setting in. He hated paperwork. Almost as much as he hated dealing with the press. He thought about the aborted trip to talk to their local informant. “We never even got to talk to Jacko,” he murmured, his eyes still on the screen.
Jeremy, leaning back in his chair, cracked his knuckles. “We can still try tomorrow. Talk to him and the two arrested today.”
Pete nodded, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah. Sounds like a plan.” He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath. It had been a hell of a day. And something told him tomorrow wouldn’t be any easier.
Jeremy nudged him. “You seeing Angie tonight?”
Pete hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Might just give her a call.”
Jeremy’s grin was unmistakable. “Cora and I are practically living together at this point.”
Pete didn’t say anything at first. He’d never been the type to rush into things, but the idea of coming home to Angie wasn’t something that sent him running. In fact, he couldn’t think of anything better.
19
The sterile walls of the interview room seemed to press in, the air thick with unspoken tension. The metal, utilitarian table in the center had witnessed years of similar conversations—some cooperative, some not.
The door swung open, and one of the guards stepped in, leading the scrawny teenager they’d seen earlier that morning. The kid who had been left behind, stuck in the car while the driver took off without a second thought.
No honor among thieves, Pete thought grimly.
Robert Reeves slouched into the chair, his shoulders tense, his knee bouncing under the table. Twitchy, but not the kind of twitchy that came from detox. This was nerves. Fear, maybe.
Pete had seen his file. No priors. Decent school attendance. Yet here he was, sitting across from two detectives, acting like he was about to take on the world. “Okay, Robert. You?—”
“Superman,” the kid interrupted, lifting his shaky chin in an attempt at bravado.
Pete arched a brow. “If you’re trying to say that’s your gang name, I gotta tell you—just because Christopher Reeves played Superman in a movie about forty years before you were born, that don’t mean that name works for you.”
Robert’s mouth twisted into a pout, and his tough act slipped for a second, making him look like a little kid instead of a sixteen-year-old trying to run with the big boys.
Jeremy leaned forward, arms on the table, his voice steady but firm. “Let’s cut the shit. This is your first arrest, but it’s a doozy. And guess what? They’ve added new charges. You think you’re getting out on charm alone?” He snorted. “Nah. But thisisyour first charge. So tell me you got at least one brain cell rattling around in that head of yours—enough to know that working with us will go a long way with the judge.”
Fear raced through Robert’s eyes, but he scoffed. “Man, I can’t talk to you. I’d be a dead man.”
