Cover Up

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

5032 Capital Circle SW
Ste 2, PMB# 279
Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Up

Copyright © 2012 by KC Burn

Cover Art by L.C. Chase   

http://www.lcchase.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Ste 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA.

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-62380-238-7

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

December 2012

eBook edition available

eBook ISBN: 978-1-62380-239-4

Dedication

This is for everyone who isn’t perfect.

Acknowledgments

Thanks as always to my super support group—Alex, Dottie and Chudney. A special thanks to Dolorianne, who pulled my fat out of the fire on this one.

I also need to thank the Canadian Identity Theft Support Centre, especially Heather, who was super helpful and answered all my questions. If I got anything wrong, it’s all on me.

Chapter 1

D
ETECTIVE
Ivan Bekker limped into police headquarters. The taskforce had been a clusterfuck from word one. Both the Organized Crime Enforcement supervisor and his boss on the Drug Squad had butted heads from the beginning. The amazing thing was that they’d managed to succeed in pulling down several major players in the Russian mafia’s drug trafficking ring. The supposedly surgical sting had devolved into a messy shootout in the middle of the warehouse district.

There had been a number of injuries and bullet wounds, but somehow, none of the good guys died.

Not yet.

Ivan stared across the floor, past the detectives busy on computers, on the phone, scribbling on paper, to the empty desks by Inspector Nadar’s office. His friend, Kurt, had been loaded onto an ambulance, blood everywhere, and Kurt’s partner, Simon, had accompanied. Hadn’t taken long to figure out one of their own had been the hardest hit, and there was as yet no word on his status. It wasn’t fair; Kurt and Simon had been on loan from Homicide, and a fluke shot had taken Kurt down.

He trudged into the locker room and peeled off his gear. Before he could shed his blood-splattered clothes, Inspector Sergio Martelli, head of the Drug Squad, rushed in.

“Bekker, my office. Now.”

Always curt, today his boss sounded pissed off as well. Great. Just what Ivan was hoping for. All he wanted was a hot shower and the chance to go to the hospital, check on Kurt personally. Ivan had been drawn to Kurt after the man’s previous partner, Ben, had been killed on the job nearly a year ago. Not attracted, but something about Kurt changed after Ben’s death, making Ivan take note. A few weeks ago they’d gone out for drinks, and Kurt had come out to him. Most gay cops kept that information real close to the vest, and Kurt was no different, but Ivan was already out.

They’d managed drinks or dinner all of three times before today’s shit storm, but Ivan considered the man a friend. He couldn’t fucking die now.

With a baleful look at the showers, Ivan plucked the clammy, bloody shirt away from his body.

“Now, Bekker!” His boss’s voice reverberated through the room, like the drill sergeant everyone likened him to. In fact, he’d heard it hadn’t taken long for Martelli’s fellow cadets in the police academy to shorten Sergio to Serge and then to Sarge. Most people thought it was his rank, and he seemed to enjoy the word play.

Ivan slammed his locker shut and stomped toward his boss’s office. If he got blood all over Martelli’s visitor chairs, so the fuck what?

Outside in the hall, there was no sign of Martelli. Ivan’s steps slowed as lethargy battled his momentary anger. Surely Martelli’s voice, deep and booming though it was, hadn’t carried all the way from his office.

A couple officers gave him a wide berth as they walked past. Ivan didn’t blame them; he must look like an escapee from a horror movie. Hell, with his dark blond hair and the Slavic features he’d inherited from his mother, he looked a lot like the Russian gangster he’d shot to death earlier. And whose blood covered him now. Dead wasn’t a win, and even as bullets scudded into the walls around him, Ivan had dashed in to try and save the guy. He’d failed. Many of the drug dealers and gangsters were going to prison—some would be deported—but Ivan’s foe was headed for the morgue. When the paramedics arrived, they’d found out the young man’s name was Dmitri. They said you never forgot your first kill, and now he knew why.

Without knocking or otherwise announcing his presence, Ivan stalked into Martelli’s office and threw himself into the blue chair on the right side. Serve him right if Martelli had to get the damn thing reupholstered.

Nose buried in a report, Martelli didn’t appear to notice his arrival.

Ivan shifted in his chair a couple of times. He could have showered already.

Irritation and impatience got the better of him. “What the fuck is so important I couldn’t even change clothes first, Sarge?”

“Shut the door, Bekker.”

Anger heated his cheeks and neck. Was it possible to literally steam? Because Ivan was on the brink. He got up and slammed the door so hard he was sitting again before the reverberations ceased.

Lifting one grizzled, gray brow, Martelli stared at him. “Was that necessary?”

Ivan blinked at him. When in doubt, don’t say a damned thing that might be incriminating.

“What happened out there?”

Squinting, he tried to determine Martelli’s exact mood. Definitely pissed off, but Ivan can’t have been the only one to kill their target. With the amount of bullets flying around, it had been nothing short of a localized war zone. No way was he the only one up for investigation by the Special Investigations Unit.

He’d not intended to kill anyone, but he’d done nothing wrong. He shrugged and recounted events of the day, from his perspective. Martelli and the SIU were going to need information from many, many officers before anyone could fully piece together the picture of what happened today.

“Right. Good job. I’m going to need a written statement before you leave.”

“Before I leave?” What the fuck? He had no intention of writing any reports today. Not with Kurt in the hospital, condition unknown.

“Yes, I’m afraid I must insist.”

“Why, Sarge?” Ivan slammed his fists down on the armrests, but that wasn’t enough. He launched out of the chair with enough force to tilt it precariously before it wobbled back onto all four legs. Ivan didn’t even spare it a glance as he prowled about the room. He wasn’t as tall as some of the other officers, but he used his hard-won muscles to intimidate when needed. Unfortunately, Martelli was completely unaffected. Damn him. Then again, Ivan wasn’t like some of the ill-tempered idiots on the squad. Made a lot of people underestimate him.

His boss knew his capabilities, though, and even though Ivan paced like a restless lion, Martelli stared indulgently like he was nothing more than a fretful kitten.

He couldn’t let it go without a whimper. Whirling, he yanked the chair over and watched it skid to a stop at the wall. He stared at it, hands fisted at his side. Punching something would make him feel better—for a split second. There wasn’t a damn thing in the office that wouldn’t bust his knuckles if he tried, and since he normally punched with his gun hand, well… drawing or firing a gun with busted knuckles was no joy.

“Better?” Martelli asked.

Ivan unclenched his fists and slumped into the other chair. He took a bit of vicious satisfaction in getting blood and grime all over both chairs, but that wasn’t enough compensation for making Ivan do paperwork today.

“Interested in knowing why I need you to do this now?” The reproach in Martelli’s tone was unmistakable.

Ivan scraped at a streak of dried blood on the back of his hand that had escaped his initial hand wash.

“Fine.” His mother would have slapped him upside the head if he’d spoken to her with that tone, but Martelli wasn’t his mom, thank Christ.

“You, Kessel, and Gillespie are on admin leave, pending the SIU investigations. I don’t know who else from the other divisions are out, but there weren’t supposed to be any casualties. And there were ten, at last count. This is going to come back and bite me on the ass.”

“Fuck, Sarge, how will making me do paperwork help any?”

Taking a furtive look around the office, Martelli lowered his voice enough that Ivan had to lean in to hear him.

“I’ve got a job for you, completely off the books.”

Shock made him sit back. Martelli had grand plans to get into politics once he’d finished his twenty-five years on the force, backed by his wealthy society wife. As a result, Ivan had never known his boss to bend the rules, and now he was proposing… what, exactly?

“What kind of job?”

“You’re one of my best detectives, Bekker.”

He was? Ivan was damned good at his job, but finding out Martelli thought he was one of the best surprised him. Then again, maybe it made Martelli uncomfortable to show him any sort of favoritism since he was gay. Martelli was an effective leader, but he was usually deaf to the slurs and insults Ivan heard on a regular basis from some of the other officers and detectives—in that, he’d envied Kurt. Inspector Nadar in Homicide seemed a lot more politically correct than Martelli, reprimanding those who acted or spoke offensively. Most of the guys were fine; there were only a few rotten apples in the bunch.

Nevertheless… how did he respond? “Okay.”

Martelli nodded, as though he’d been waiting for some sort of acknowledgment from Ivan. Also weird. “We both know we got lucky today. Only one cop with life-threatening injuries. Considering….” Martelli’s voice dropped yet again.

“Considering?”

A scowl deepened the creases on Martelli’s spray-tanned forehead. “Considering we’ve got a leak. Maybe worse.”

Ivan’s nostrils flared. Shit. He’d tried hard not to think it, but he’d been on more than one of these stings during his career, and this was the first time they’d been met with this degree of organized resistance.

“Worse?”

“I don’t want to speculate yet. What I do want you to do is go undercover while you’re on your administrative leave. I hate to ask this of you, but we’ve got a tip that needs looking into, and I need you on it.”