Nerves of Steel

by CJ Lyons

  Drake heard regret in the older man's voice. Castro wanted to protect Hart, to be a surrogate father to her, but she wouldn't allow him into her life. Stubborn woman--and proud.

  They both fell silent for a moment. "Whatever happened with King," and Drake was certain Castro's suspicions of abuse were correct, "she got herself out of it. She can take care of herself."

  "That's what she keeps telling me. But she could have been killed last night. She's no superwoman, can't outrun a speeding bullet."

  "She's not stupid enough to put herself in danger again," Drake said, but he had the same thought as Castro.

  Castro rolled his eyes. "Intelligence has nothing to do with it. Some of it has to do with being raised by a crazy old woman spouting gypsy curses and nonsense. Mostly, I think she's always trying to repay her parents, feels responsible that she's alive and they're both dead. The rest--well, you've seen her. Cassie's not one to let go.

  "Believe me, I've raised six kids. And let me tell you, Cassie Hart has caused me more pain, sleepless nights and heartache than the rest of them put together."

  Drake had the sudden feeling Castro knew all about him and Hart. Maybe raising six kids invested a father with a special ESP, because Castro wasn't looking at him like a cop who was disrupting his ER's routines. Castro's stare felt heavy, as if he expected Drake to volunteer for dangerous duty.

  He cleared his throat, tried not to squirm under the intensity of the older man's gaze.

  "Get the bastard before he hurts anyone else, all right?" Castro finally broke the silence. "And watch out for Cassie, keep her safe."

  "Yes sir," Drake said, nodding slowly as if he had just taken a solemn vow. Castro relaxed, moved behind his desk, dismissing him. Drake left the office feeling like a schoolboy released from detention.

  CHAPTER 33

  Armed with Polaroids of Jane Doe, some cash, her Maglight, and most importantly, several bags of burgers and fries, Cassie pulled off Route 51 and into the abandoned industrial complex at the foot of the West End Bridge. Up ahead, orange PennDOT barrels marked where the road and bridge were closed for repairs. The construction crews were gone for the day, their demolition equipment casting shadows like those of prehistoric beasts across the jagged field of broken asphalt.

  No sign of Adeena's car. Cassie couldn't believe Adeena came here alone on her outreach visits. The place spooked the hell out of her—and she had yet to meet the kids who called it home.

  They're only kids. Still, she'd feel better waiting until Adeena arrived. Not that the slightly over-weight and very out of shape social worker would be much of a help if anything happened. Cassie grabbed her cell and called Adeena. "Hey, where are you?"

  "Didn't you get my message?" Adeena said. "I texted you. We need to re-schedule, I'm having dinner with Fran's parents. You're invited too."

  Cassie stared out the window at the strange shapes of the construction equipment. That was one message she was glad to have missed—there was no way she could handle an entire evening with Fran's parents. Give her a bunch of homeless kids to deal with any day. "That's okay," she told Adeena. "But I think I'll skip dinner--I haven't gotten much sleep lately."

  There was a pause, and she could almost hear the social worker dissecting her words. "So you're not thinking of going over there alone, right?" Adeena asked.

  Not thinking of it, already doing it. "No big deal, you do it all the time."

  "Promise you'll wait for me. We'll go tomorrow." A voice in the background distracted Adeena. "Fran's parents are here. I have to go. Sure you won't change your mind?"

  "Absolutely sure. Bye." She hung up before Adeena could question her further. The smells of hamburgers and French fries filled the car, leaving the air slick with grease. No harm dropping off the food—it would be a gesture of good will, even if the kids didn't trust her or talk to her without Adeena there with her.

  The closest building was a squat tin-roofed affair, a faded sign above the door proclaiming its former incarnation as a Westinghouse distribution facility. Cassie rocked open the wide door, allowing the fading sunlight to silhouette her, revealing her lack of threat to those within.

  "Anyone hungry?" she called out. The odor of sweat, urine and rotting food swarmed over her. She remained in the doorway, not just as a safety precaution, but also to give her fresh air to breathe. How did these kids stand it?

  She hefted the large Burger King bag into the light of the doorway. At least it had stopped raining, she thought, thankful for the wan February sun.

  As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness inside the warehouse, she began to discriminate a few body-sized masses huddled amidst the debris. Several stirred, a few even daring eye contact, but no one came close to her. Then one emaciated young man appeared from out of the darkness, his flat, dark eyes appraising her.

  What caught her attention was the wicked looking butterfly knife he held, ready to attack at the slightest provocation.

  "Who're you?" he asked, the sunlight glancing off pale skin wracked with acne. Both ears were pierced and the spirals of a tattooed serpent traced its way up his arm.

  "I'm a doctor from Three Rivers," Cassie told him.

  "Here to give us some checkups, doc? Don't think our HMO will cover it, y'know?" He grinned at her, his teeth blackened by decay.

  She gestured with the bag of food. He looked over his shoulder and nodded to his comrades. One of them scurried forward, grabbed the food and returned with it to the others.

  "I'm taking care of a young girl, maybe fourteen years old," she went on, holding Jane Doe's photo out to the boy. "She's in a coma. We don't know who she is, how to find her family."

  "Why should I care?" he asked reasonably, using his left hand to eat a burger one of the others brought to him. The right hand, the hand with the knife, never wavered.

  "We found her down here, under the bridge. I thought you might be able to help. She may have been hanging out with someone named T-man."

  The boy looked up at that. "Then she's lucky she's not dead or worse." He spat a piece of gristle at her feet. "What's in it for us? A reward?"

  Cassie wasn't stupid enough to waltz in here with a wallet full of money. She'd brought just enough to bargain with, not enough to tempt violence. She hoped.

  "No reward. But," she added when his attention drifted away in disinterest. "I can give you twenty dollars for helping."

  "A hundred," he countered readily. "Now, in cash. How's I know you won't get what yunz lookin for and forget about us?"

  "Forty." Cassie pulled two bills from her jeans pocket. The boy narrowed his eyes. "If someone can help me." She closed her fist on the two twenties when he reached for them.

  He shrugged and took the photos from her, handing them off to another boy without looking at them. He and Cassie remained where they were for several minutes until the boy returned and whispered something in his ear.

  "Her name's Sarah," he told her as she pocketed the photos. "From either Ohio or Indiana. Been hanging 'round here a few weeks, mainly over at the Barn." He gestured at the next building toward the bridge. "She's a strawberry, will whore for anything--crack, FX, heroin, Contin, whatever's around."

  "Is there anyone at the Barn I should talk to?" Cassie held the money out of his reach.

  He looked her up and down. "Depends how much a fool you are. That's T-man's territory, he holds his parties out of there."

  "Is there a party tonight? Will he be there?" She looked at her watch; it was almost six o'clock.

  Her new friend shrugged. "I look like a fucking social calendar or what? Yunz got your money's worth." He held out a palm scarred with the criss-cross marks of a street fighter, and she gave him the money.

  "Thanks," she told him, backing away from the building.

  "Anytime, doc," he yelled after her. "Just bring more cash next time."

  Yeah, right. Cassie picked her way through the refuse littered lot to the large Quonset type building he'd called the Barn. Bone jarring music thunde
red through the air from fifty yards away. Christmas lights were festooned over the entrance, illuminating a straggling line of colorfully clad people waiting to get inside.

  As she drew closer, she saw it wasn't just kids who were attracted by the rave. There were several older couples and a few single men all wearing frayed jeans, metal chains for belts and leather biker jackets. An assortment of giggling girls, their hair sprayed to match the colors of the rainbow, passed a joint back and forth. More kids shuffled through the line, interspersed with sports-jacket clad men with fake tans and sunglasses dangling from their open shirt collars as if it were August in Miami instead of February in Pittsburgh.

  She considered calling Drake, then imagined the condescending lecture he'd most likely deliver. Not to mention the dirty looks his partner would give her.

  The hope of avoiding another humiliating encounter made up her mind. Cassie straightened, rolled her shoulders and joined the line into the Barn.

  Drake would be the first to admit that he was no super-cop. But after successfully running a one man tail on Trautman and following him to an address in Homestead that didn't match the one listed in DMV records, he was starting to feel like he had a little of that old black magic coming back. Timing, Jimmy would say, it's all in the timing.

  He circled around the block, found a good vantage point in the alley behind the brick rowhouse Trautman had parked in front of, just in time to see Trautman appear in an upstairs window. Changing his clothes, Drake guessed. Settling in for the night? Or getting dressed to go out, do some business?

  Drake began to trace the property's ownership through the car's computer, one eye on the house, following the lights as they went on in the kitchen and living room, the other on the computer screen.

  And none out the rearview mirror. Which was how the old man snuck up on him. The old man with the shotgun, that was.

  CHAPTER 34

  "Hey there." Drake jerked his head up. A white-haired man who looked disturbingly like his grandfather, same stooped posture, same crows feet, same loose upper dentures that clicked when he talked, stood on the other side of the car. He whacked a shotgun barrel against the passenger side window. "Hands where I can see them, out of the car, now."

  Another rap with the gun. "I said out of the car!"

  Judas H! Anyone could see this was a cop car, who else would be caught dead in a piece-of-shit white Dodge with a radio and computer on the front console? Drake rolled down the passenger window.

  "I'm a police officer, sir," he said, hoping the old guy wasn't deaf as well as blind. "Please move away from the car."

  The old man shook his head, the barrel of the shotgun moving with it. Drake was definitely within target range no matter how bad the guy's aim might be. The back of his neck began to itch. In a way this was more frightening than staring down Lester's Bulldog. At least he knew Lester wanted to kill him. This idiot might kill him totally by accident.

  God, what a stupid way to go. Cop's worst nightmare: becoming fodder for training lessons for years to come. Don't pull a Drake and get your head blown off by some old fool thinks you're there to steal his TV and Viagra.

  "Ya deaf?" the geezer yelled.

  "Just wake up the neighborhood, why don't you?" Drake risked a sideways glance at Trautman's house. All the lights were off except the one in the living room, the TV's flickering glow visible through the open drapes. Guy was acting like he didn't have anything to hide.

  He held his hands up in plain sight, edged across the seat, then stepped out of the car. "If you reach into my inside coat pocket, you'll find my identification," he told the old man as he walked around the front of the car. The guy was so excited, his hands were shaking.

  "Please don't aim that gun at me, sir." This old coot was really starting to try his patience.

  "Don't you tell me what to do. Angie Myerson got attacked by two guys says they're cops just last month. Pushed past her inside her house, shoved her down, and ransacked the place. Who you working with? Where's the other'un?" The man spun around as if expecting an ambush at any second. As he did, he swung the shotgun with him, and Drake saw his chance.

  He grabbed the gun, twisting it from the old man's hands. The man fell to the ground, landing in a mud puddle.

  "Don't shoot, it's not loaded," the man cried out, holding his hands in front of his face.

  Drake didn't try to follow the logic there, instead he broke the shotgun open and verified that it was empty. As he flipped it closed again, he heard the growl of a motorcycle's engine. He looked around just in time to see Trautman speeding off down the street. Damn it!

  He bolted toward the car, but the old man was a stubborn coot. He latched onto Drake's leg, tried to drag him down. Trautman was out of sight before Drake could break free.

  "I ought to run you in for obstruction of justice, you old bastard!" he shouted at the mud-covered man still clutching at his jeans.

  The man released him, scooted back. "You really a cop?" he asked in a doubtful voice.

  "Yes, goddamn it! What the hell you think you're doing, running around with a shotgun and pointing it at people?"

  "It wasn't loaded," the man protested. "I was just trying to help."

  "Next time dial 911." Drake threw the empty shotgun in the car and opened the driver side door.

  "Hey, you can't leave me like this! I think I broke my hip." The old man grabbed his leg and winced. "Yeah, you broke my hip. I outta sue!"

  "I'll break something for you," Drake muttered as he helped the man to his feet. Both legs seemed to work fine as the man alternated limping dramatically on first one, then the other. His name was Maurice Coffman--not related to those Kaufmann's, the rich ones, Coffman with a C--and he gave Drake the history and life story of every house and homeowner on the block while they waited for the ambulance Coffman insisted upon. At last he came to Victor Trautman.

  "That's his aunt's house, she passed two, almost three, months back. Right afore Christmas. Probably gave herself a heart attack--that was one mean old lady. She'd have shot yunz first, then asked what ya were doing on her property after."

  Tough block, Drake thought, glad he hadn't come while Trautman's aunt was still alive. "Does her nephew bring anyone home with him? Lots of strange cars come by here?"

  Coffman shook his head. "Nah, he pretty much keeps to hisself. Goes out a lot on that noisy bike, comes home late. Mostly there to eat and change clothes it seems. Must be pulling double shifts, 'cause he's doing all right money-wise. That bike's brand new and he's got a nice looking sports car in the garage. One of them foreign jobs."

  The medics came, assured Coffman and Drake that everything was fine and gave Drake a copy of their report. He couldn't wait to hear what Miller said when she saw that. The old man fetched beer and stale kalatke's for them all, tried to convince them to stay longer, watch the Pitt basketball game with him.

  When Drake was finally able to break away, he found Trautman's house and garage were both locked up tight. Nothing that could remotely resemble probable cause was in the sight of his flashlight when he looked through the window. He kept half an eye out behind him, hoping there weren't any more senior citizens on the prowl.

  He called a report to Kwon and got back into the Intrepid. Out of leads. Should just call it a night.

  His cell rang, a number he didn't recognize. "Drake here."

  "It's Adeena Coleman. From Three Rivers?"

  "I remember." Why the hell would the social worker be calling him? To accuse him of rape again? "Do you need more information about that complaint you were going to file?"

  There was a lengthy silence. "No. I'm worried about Cassie and I didn't have your partner's number."

  "Hart? What's wrong?" He sat up, on full alert.

  "She had this idea that Fran's death was connected to the Jane Doe she found—you know about her?"

  "Yeah, the girl from the Kills Deer Bridge."

  "Cassie went out there to talk to some homeless kids—she was supposed to wai
t for me, but I know she didn't. And now she's not answering her cell. I'm worried."

  "I'm on my way."

  CHAPTER 35

  Cassie took a moment to orient herself once she crossed the threshold into the Barn. The atmosphere inside the rave club was a tsunami of color and noise. Strobe lights spiraled over the gyrating crowd, reflecting off fluorescent body paint, jewelry, and glowsticks. A gray haired couple in Birkenstocks and tie-dyed shirts danced as if it were the Jerry Garcia Band playing instead of nerve wrecking technofunk.

  She shook her head at a vendor selling bottles of water for five dollars each and another with a display of pacifiers, glowsticks, and assorted miniature feather dusters. She saw no one selling any drugs openly.

  Since it was fruitless to try to talk above the roar of the music, she navigated through the crowd to a rear room. The door was open, the floor coated in a fog of dry ice, and several people lay on thick futons and old mattresses. None of them appeared to be in distress. Maybe the Double Cross wasn't being sold tonight. She thought of Brian Winston lying in a coma at Three Rivers and hoped word about the deadly drug combo had gotten out.

  It was quieter here. She moved over to the first group of kids and knelt down beside them. Two boys and a girl, none looked old enough to drive. Their clothes showed them to be affluent, at least enough to buy Tommy Hilfiger and Doc Martens.

  "Aren't you hot," the girl asked in a dreamy voice, her fingers stroking Cassie's leather jacket. She spoke around a pacifier that she sucked at greedily.

  "A little." She held out the photo of Jane Doe. "I'm trying to find this girl."

  "That's so sweet," she crooned. "Sarah, horse and buggy Sarah." She frowned, shook her head. "But can't go home when you're a bad girl like me."

  To Cassie's surprise the girl began crying, then wrapped her arms around Cassie's neck in an embrace.

  She gently disengaged her. The girl was blubbering now, incoherent. The two boys looked on, their smiles wolfish. They weren't as high as the girl. They weren't as young, either, she saw as one of them lifted the girl onto his lap and began to stroke his hand over her belly in a possessive manner.