Deception

* * *

The conversation gravitated to Alessandra as we reached our drink limit. Lesley was bragging about her cooking, which was only making me hungry since we hadn't had dinner and were drinking on empty stomachs. Lesley was pretty looped and I put her in an Uber to take her home. I went back into the bar to close out the tab and sober up before I drove back to the Palms. It was about eight.

I was sitting on a barstool reviewing the bar tab and credit card slip when I saw DaVanna making her grand entrance into Bailey's. There were four women with her, all well dressed and clearly part of her posse. I tried to ignore her but she spotted me. She was wearing a low cut blue sequined dress that was cut six inches above her knee. With her long legs and heels, the hem looked even higher. On top of having the face of a model, she was well endowed and her breasts were bulging out of her dress. She was my version of the perfect, fuckable woman, even though I hated her guts.

She waltzed across the room and sat down across from me. Her entourage surrounded us.

"Fancy meeting you here," she said in snooty voice. The pretense of niceness was gone.

"I didn't invite you to sit with me," I said as inhospitably as I could manage.

She laughed and her posse whinnied with her.

"I came here to apologize," she said, trying to sound serious.

"Really?"

I signed the credit card slip and put it back in the leather folder.

"I wanted to apologize for taking your girlfriend away from you and I still owe you a drink."

I wanted to punch her.

"I have a few things to tell you but I don't want to scorch their tender ears," I said instead, pointing to her "friends."

"Oh, don't mind them, go ahead and tell me."

"You're a lying, backstabbing cunt." Then I added, "and you're not a nice person."

She laughed even louder.

"Is that all you've got? I've been called worse by people that hold bigger sticks than yours." She held her fingers four inches apart, suggesting the size of mine.

"What do you say Max? Has the cat got your tongue? Because I know Courtney doesn't," she said, taunting me more.

I raised up off my seat, about to grab her dress and punch her in her pretty little chin. But that would let her win. I sat back down, fuming.

"I've got to get some sleep so I can catch bad guys tomorrow." I got up and pushed my way through the peanut gallery.

"Happy hunting Max," DaVanna said to me as a parting shot.

I gave her the finger. Maybe she didn't know I was hunting her.

She smiled back.

Chapter Nine

What's that Smell?

Lesley was in the break room waiting for me with a mug of coffee. She handed it to me as I sat down.

"I guess you're in," I said to her.

"All the way."

"Good. Let's talk no more of that," I said, closing off the discussion. "Listen, you find out if there's anything else we need to do related to the bust yesterday. I want to make sure we file all the necessary reports so that those guys can be charged. Especially that fucker who was trying to take you out."

"Right boss."

"I'm going to go through Stewart McCormick's arrest record."

"OK."

She went off to follow up on the arrest paperwork. I went back to the computer to start digging.

I typed in "Stewart McCormick."

My screen flashed File Restricted -- Authorized Personnel Only.

Fuck. I was going to have to get our new lieutenant, Billie Odette, to override the block on his record. Nothing's ever easy.

Billie was a twenty year veteran of the force, an African-American woman who had to battle with smarts and guts to get her leadership position in Vice. She was a breath of fresh air for the department after bean counter Barry Neufeld. I knew she was briefed on what I was up to and probably wasn't so pleased I was going after royalty in investigating DaVanna Caruso. I didn't have a choice but to see her. She was typing away on her keyboard when I walked through her open office door. Pictures of her two teenagers were prominently displayed on her desk. She glanced to the side when she saw me come in.

"Max?"

She raised her eyebrows. She knew I was poking around DaVanna, and that I was asking for trouble.

"I need you to give me access to Stewart McCormick's arrest record," I said, not mincing words.

She stopped her typing and gave me a death stare.

"The fuck I do. You're chasing DaVanna Caruso and now you want to fuck with Maureen as well? That file's restricted for a reason."

She folded her hands on her desk and made direct eye contact.

"Please tell me you're not insane."

"I think I've got a solid lead."

"Fuck your solid lead."

I went for broke. "It's from Alessandra Caruso."

Billie stopped her mini-tantrum. "DaVanna's little sister?"

"Uh huh."

"She would rat out her sister?"

"She did."

"You've got my attention."

I embellished, maybe just a little bit. "Alessandra told me that DaVanna fixed Stewart's DUI's. She probably fucked with the evidence."

"That's a pretty big fucking allegation."

"And there may be more. I don't know, but somehow it may be connected to Maureen's resignation."

"You're swinging for the fences."

"That's me . . . Max. I go for the throat. If we nail this bitch, it's going to be with something big. I think I'm getting close."

"Max, I know you think you're hot shit, but you're playing with fire here. You're asking me to stick my neck out. If I issue the override order, it's going to get the attention of people above me. Those people can make life pretty fucking miserable for the both of us."

I decided to tell a little white lie, otherwise I was fucked.

"I ran this by Saul Groesbeck."

"The former Chief?"

Billie was around when he was Chief.

"Yeah, he thought I was onto something."

Billie knew him better than I thought.

"Bullshit. He'd never offer an opinion like that without some hard proof. You've only got your gut."

Billie was a sharp as a tack, as advertised.

"All right, even if I haven't talked to him, I know I'm going to find something."

"Are you sure you want to use whatever goodwill you have with me now?"

I felt sure. And besides, I'd gambled with less.

"I'm willing to."

She thought for a moment. She turned around, tapping her keyboard and going through a few screens before turning back to face me.

"OK. I've given you permission to review those records."

"Thank you."

"Listen Max. If you take the fall, and I guarantee it's going to be you and not me, it's going to be a long way down. And you know what that means."

"Cleaning restrooms?"

"If you're lucky."

"I won't let you down," I assured her.

"You better not. Now get the fuck out of my office."

* * *

I went on my newly authorized computer and found that Stewart McCormick was charged with driving under the influence three separate times. In all three cases the matter was assigned to DaVanna. In all three cases the file indicated that charges weren't filed due to "insufficient evidence."

There was a strong smell of bullshit in the room.

I opened the first file. The incident was five years ago. The charges were dropped because the blood sample taken at the station was accidentally contaminated in the lab and determined to be inadmissible in court. Without the proof of the alcohol level in his blood, it was only the arresting officer's word and the footage on the dash cam of the field sobriety test against Stewart's word. It wasn't enough to support a conviction. I couldn't argue with the "no prosecution" call.

Another arrest three years ago. Coincidentally, the blood sample was contaminated in the lab. Again no charges were brought. One mishap in the lab I might believe, maybe. But two? No.

Then I opened the third file. Same contamination. Same outcome.

This was out and out obstruction of justice and tampering with evidence. But would "fixing" three DUI's really bring DaVanna down? And how could I prove that she was the one who contaminated the blood samples? It could have been anyone at the lab. Or even Maureen. Even though this was an egregious miscarriage of justice, I really didn't have anything to pin on DaVanna without something more.

I started at the beginning, reviewing each file one more time to make sure I didn't miss anything. I re-read the police reports, and when I got to the most recent file, from almost two years ago, I saw that the arresting officer noted there was damage to the left front fender. It also said that Maureen was the lone passenger in the car.

I checked the license plate. It was a City-owned vehicle that was assigned to Maureen McCormick. That fact in and of itself wouldn't raise any additional suspicion, but if the vehicle was in an accident, there would be a report filed with the City so that the car could be repaired. The City kept their pool of cars in a secure lot not far from our station. I took Lesley with me in our patrol car.

We went into a "temporary" trailer on the lot that housed a lone clerk who managed the fleet. It was the middle of the day, and not much was happening, as most of the action for him occurred at the beginning and end of the day. The clerk had headphones on and his feet were on his desk with his back to us as we entered the trailer. He was so engrossed in the porn he was watching that I was able to come right up behind him and snap a picture on my phone. Then I tapped him on his shoulder. Startled, he took his feet off his desk and stood up and turned around to see two uniformed police officers. He quickly switched off his phone. He was unable to hide the erection in his pants. Lesley had to cover her mouth to hide her smile.

"Can I help you?" he said in a high pitched voice. I think he was staring at my tits, and no, they didn't need any help from him.

"Eyes up, and yes you can help us," I said.

The young man was completely flustered. "So what can I do for you?" he squeaked.

"You can tell me what procedure you follow when a vehicle has been in an accident."

His eyes lit up. This was his fiefdom. And my question was a welcome escape from the embarrassment of a few moments ago.

"We have them fill in a DR-406 form." He got up and opened a file cabinet drawer. He rifled through the folders. "Here's a blank one." He handed it to me.

I scanned the form. "So I see down here." I pointed to a box at the bottom of the form. "It says 'Attach Police Report, if required'."

"Uh huh."

"So when is it required?"

"When the estimated repairs are greater than $500."

"Would a dented fender be more than $500?"

"Oh yeah, typically with parts, labor and repainting you're easily looking at $1,500."

"And a police report is always required?"

"Yeah, with one exception."

"What's that?"

"If a department head signs off and waives the requirement."

"Does that ever happen?"

"Not often."

I gave him the license plate number of Maureen's vehicle. "Can you look this one up so we can see the service records?" I leaned forward on his desk with my hands so he had a better view of my tits.

'Sure," he said, in a voice an octave higher.

He tapped a few keys on his keyboard. "Ah yes, 2010 silver Chevy Tahoe, Maureen McCormick, Hamilton County Prosecutor. Are you sure you want to see this record? She's an important person."

He paused for a moment. "I think I need to run this request by my supervisor."

I showed him the picture on my phone. It was clear enough to tell he was watching a video of three men having sex with each other. His face became ashen.

"Why don't you run this by your supervisor first?" I asked, waving my phone

Judging by the size of his wide open eyes, he heard me loud and clear.

"Did you want to see the entire paper file as well as the electronic one?"

"Why yes, we would be delighted to," I answered cheerfully. Somehow I always find a way to encourage people to do the right thing.

He got up from his desk and went to a different bank of file drawers, muttering under his breath. He flipped through a few files and then stopped. "Here it is," he said, holding up a fat paper file.

He plopped the file on his desk.

"Not many people want to see the paper file."

"Sometimes things are missed in the scanning process or made illegible. I like looking at the paper," I said. I was old school in more ways than one.

"Suit yourself."

He sat back down and allowed me to go through the thick file. I gave half to Lesley and I looked at the other half .

Insurance documents. Routine oil changes. I was about at the end of my half and found nothing.

"Look at this," said Lesley, holding up a stapled set of papers. She handed them to me. It was a Form DR-406 with a repair order dated May 12, 2012, attached to it, for a left front fender with a repair estimate of $1,800. "Wasn't the DUI on May 11?" I asked.

She nodded.

I hugged her. "Good catch partner."

We scanned down the form together. "This box, the one for the police report . . . it's not checked."

The clerk came over and pointed to a signature on the following page.

"This is a Form DR-407 for a supervisor to sign to waive the accident report requirement."

It was signed by DaVanna Caruso. Of course.

These files were giving off a foul stench. And DaVanna's fingerprints were all over them.

I looked at my partner. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Uh huh."

I handed the paperwork back to the clerk. "Can you make a copy of these and we'll be on our way?"

"Sure." He went over to the copy machine, and out of earshot. The copier started to whir.

"Traffic cams," said Lesley.

"Yes . . . good partner," I said, complimenting her on her quick deduction.

"We correlate it with unsolved hit and runs around the area of the DUI arrest."

"Yes again," I said to her.

The clerk handed me the copies. He cleared his throat as we were about to leave.

"The picture?"

"What about it?" I asked.

"Could you delete it?" he asked hopefully.

"I think I'll hang on to it until my investigation is over. If it turns out well I'll be sure to mention you in my report."

"Thanks, I think?"

"Be happy it was me and not your supervisor who came through that door."

As soon as we went out the door, both of us burst out laughing.

Chapter Ten

It All Becomes Clear

We knew that on May 11, 2012, at approximately 10:30 p.m., Stewart McCormick was pulled over and arrested for a DUI on Pavilion Street in the ritzy Mount Adams neighborhood, not far from his home. We also discovered there was a fatal hit and run less than a mile from the DUI stop. There were of course no witnesses and no leads.

I had Lesley pull traffic cam footage within a two mile radius of the arrest for the thirty minutes prior to the arrest.

I camped in my office pushing the paperwork off it for most of the morning, all the time wondering if Lesley would hit the jackpot. Instead she came up lemons.

"Max, there were 37 traffic cams. 36 were in operation. I got three people to help me, and even using fast forward it took us three hours to go through it all. Nothing. Looks like this a dead end," she said, the resignation coming through loud and clear in her voice.

"What about the 37^th camera?" I asked her, not wanting to give up the fight. She gave me the evil eye.

It always pays to be thorough, and I persisted.

"Well?"

"Well, we were told that sometimes the camera is down for one reason or another. Honestly Max, we just wasted a whole morning and I used up three favors I had coming to me."

"Who keeps the archive footage?"

It's a guy in City Operations. He's in their IT department. Nice enough, but if it ain't there, it ain't there," Lesley replied.

"I know where he is," I told her. "I've dealt with City Operations. On the basement level of City Hall, right?"

"That's right. It's like a dungeon down there."

"Depressing."

"Yeah," she said.

* * *

So there I was, in City Hall. The grand marble foyer on the ground floor stood in stark contrast to the dingy basement, where the departments with no political power were assigned. IT was one of those departments. DaVanna's office was in the Mayor's suite on one of the upper floors. Guess who had the most pull in the City?

I found Room 142B. A wooden door with a frosted glass panel and the room number affixed with black decal letters using a font popular in the 1930's. There were steam and water pipes and trays carrying heavy cables to the subterranean server room running overhead. There were of course no outside windows so all of the light was artificial, most of it from fluorescent fixtures that were probably installed in the 1960's.

The door was locked. I knocked on the window panel.

Footsteps approached and a smiling man opened the door. He was wearing a tweed jacket and looked like he had stepped out of the English literature class he was teaching at Oxford. He appeared to be fortyish and had a prominent handlebar moustache.

"You must be Officer Pemberton," he said in a decidedly British accent.

"I am," I acknowledged.

"Pete Westfield."

Pete was the guy I spoke to on the phone. He said he'd meet us at 3 p.m., and for once, I was on time.

"So how can I be of assistance Officer Pemberton?"

"Please Pete, call me Max."

"Lovely. Max it is."

He folded his hands together as he stood there waiting for my question.

"Pete, we requested traffic cam footage, and there was one camera that didn't record that day, or the data wasn't saved that day.

He thought a moment. "No, no. We save all the data. We've never had any interruptions of that sort."

"But could one camera go out for a day?"

He laughed. "Of course they do. They go out all the time. Theft, vandalism, the elements. We have to replace about 10% every year. Why, there are areas in the West End that have had almost a 100% replacement rate."

"What about the Mount Adams area?" I asked.

He put his finger to his lips. It was cute.

"We've had very few failures in that area, but it does occasionally happen."

"Could someone remove the footage from the server?"

He chuckled. "Of course they could. They'd have to know what they were doing and get someone to do it. They'd also have to have the appropriate passcodes. It's difficult, but not impossible."

"Do you know if it's ever been done here? Unauthorized theft of data?"

"Everyone get hacked. But often they leave an electronic trail. That's how we find them."

He looked at me with concern.

"Was data taken off our servers?"

"No. Nothing that I know of. It's just suspicious that the traffic cam was out of operation. As you said, in the Mount Adams area there's little or no crime, other than breaking and enterings. Do you keep another copy someplace?" I asked, fishing for another way.

He thought for a moment. "I don't know. I manage the data here. I don't know what goes on elsewhere."

I must have looked crestfallen. I also didn't quite believe him.

"Is there someone else we can ask?"

He looked like he was insulted. "I guess you could see Manny."

"Manny?

He pulled out his phone and scrolled though his contact list. He recited the address.

"It's going to be a waste of time," he cautioned me.

"Time seems to be all we have. Thanks Pete."

I went away with an empty feeling in my stomach. Pete didn't seem to be helpful or forthcoming. I wondered why.

* * *

I went by myself to an office park out in the suburbs to find Manny. I found out that a number of the back-up servers to the City of Cincinnati's infrastructure were housed in one of its office suites. The suite had no signage on the door other than a room number in plain white lettering. There was a buzzer next to the door. I pressed it wondering what I was going to find.

A minute later that door opened and a security guard answered. I showed him my identification.