Face to Face

by CJ Lyons

  He stopped short in the living room, tried to regain his composure. There had to be a dozen buildings in this neighborhood where you could see Pamela's apartment from. He'd probably been inside most of them without ever noticing. It was the stalker, worming his way into Drake's brain with his sick mind games.

  "I'm going to send some guys to check for fingerprints," he told Burns. Fat lot of good it would do, but worth a shot.

  She nodded mutely then burst into tears. Aw hell, not again. Before he could offer her his handkerchief, she grabbed her purse and rummaged through it.

  "Hold this," she said, handing him a black patent leather wallet that matched the purse. Then she withdrew a delicate piece of embroidered linen and wiped her tears, while he stood there holding her wallet in one hand, the purse in the other, wishing he'd called in sick this morning.

  If he had, he'd already be at the Lake. He and Hart sailing, catching cool breezes not found here in this pressure cooker of a city. He could see Hart laughing, the wind dancing her hair as he showed her how to handle the small Sunfish. Just a few more hours. He could hang on that long.

  Burns sniffed one more time and looked up at him with large, hazel eyes dripping with need. "Am I all right here?" She reached a hand out, rested it on his arm. "You'll protect me, make sure nothing happens?"

  Not him, lady. Not until after this weekend anyway.

  "We'll do the best we can," he tried to reassure her. "But you might want to stay with a friend for a few days. Until you get the locks changed, at least."

  She straightened, trying and failing to appear brave. "Could I—could I call you if anything happens, Detective Drake?"

  He gave her his card, the one with the station house number, not his private numbers. "You can call this twenty-four hours a day."

  She looked down at the card, a small frown crossing her features as if she realized a brush-off when she saw one. He sure as hell hoped she did.

  Jimmy's heavy steps sounded from the staircase. "I've got to get going. Don't touch anything more until the crime scene technicians are done. And remember to ask for their ID before you let them inside."

  She nodded her head like a little girl chastened by past mistakes and anxious to please. "Yes, I will. Thank you." He was already halfway out the door, eager to be leaving her presence. "I'll see you later, Detective Drake."

  Not if he saw her first. Jeezit, did the Burglary guys owe them big time on this one. He stole a glance back at Burns who was hanging over the railing at the top of the steps, watching him leave. Maybe she was pretty in that Hollywood too-thin way.

  If only he didn't already have Hart. He stopped short. Had he really fallen so far he couldn't even look at another woman? In just five short months?

  No, no way. He always promised himself he'd never be tied down, never be one of those men who let a woman control their entire existence. True, he loved Hart, he really did. But she didn't own him or anything.

  He stood his ground, and in defiance of the feelings spiraling through him at the thought of Hart, he raised his head and met Burns' gaze with a smile. The smile she returned was full wattage as she leaned further, giving him a glimpse of her ample cleavage.

  Drake fled down the steps, already regretting his impulse, meeting Jimmy on the third floor landing. Christ, he was a heel. What the hell was he thinking, smiling at a victim like that—just to prove he could, that he still had it in him to make a woman look at him with lust in her eyes?

  And the worst thing was, his body had responded to Burns' interest even as his mind kept thinking of Hart.

  "What's wrong with you?" Jimmy asked when Drake stood there like a mope.

  "I'm an idiot."

  "Could've told you that. What's the deal?"

  "Not your typical B and E. I think we might have a peeper who got lucky—hopefully won't be escalating anytime soon, but we should have CSU take a look, see if they can find any prints worth running."

  "No one else in the building saw, heard, or lost anything. Looks like our actor climbed right up to the top of the building."

  They continued down the steps and out to the car. "So he knows Burns—or at least where she lives."

  "Name's on the mailbox," Jimmy supplied, "with little hearts drawn around it."

  Next time Drake saw Monica Burns, he was going to lecture her on life in the big, bad city.

  "We'll get the boys working on it. Not much else we can do today." Drake slouched in the seat as Jimmy steered the Intrepid back toward East Liberty and the House. "Might as well call it quits."

  To his surprise, Jimmy stopped in front of the Blarney Stone, the bar Drake's first partner, Andy Greally, owned. Jimmy turned and looked at him. "You going tell me what the hell is going on?"

  Drake was silent. Last thing he wanted was to get anyone else involved. Pamela's suicide raked up, his co-workers doubting him again. Especially not Jimmy. He stared at the vent, wishing the air conditioner could go higher.

  Jimmy turned the ignition off but made no move to leave the car. "I can take the heat."

  The car quickly grew stifling. An oven roasting in the relentless sun. Drake debated his options—all of which conspired to make him look a fool. Or more of a fool than he already appeared. Besides, if you couldn't trust your partner....

  "All right. But inside, where it's cooler."

  "My thoughts exactly."

  Chapter 9

  The Blarney Stone was a traditional policeman's pub: high-backed booths promising privacy, back room with an old fashioned jukebox and antique pool table, red-cheeked bartender behind the lovingly polished bar waiting to hear confession.

  Only the man behind the bar was no priest. And certainly no saint. Andy Greally was a retired patrol officer who had been Drake's father's partner and then Drake's training officer. Drake nodded a greeting as he settled himself into the back booth—the most private. Not that there was anyone else in the bar with the breakfast crowd gone and the lunch one not yet begun.

  Jimmy heaved into the bench opposite, immediately loosening his tie, but leaving his suit coat on. Andy arrived balancing three cups of coffee and a manila envelope.

  "What's that?" Drake asked, pushing against the back corner of the booth at the sight of the envelope. He knew the answer. Hard enough explaining what a fuck up he was to Jimmy—but now he had to let Andy in on it as well?

  Andy dealt out the coffee mugs, flipped the envelope onto the table, and slid in beside Drake, trapping him. "You tell me. Kenny found it when he was closing up last night. Gave it to me to give to you. Reeks of cheap perfume. You got another psychofreak like Pamela hounding you? Does Hart know?"

  Andy never approved of Pamela. Thought she was unstable. A badge bunny who needed rescuing on a constant basis. But he was a staunch supporter of Hart. The doctor was one of the few women up to the challenge of keeping Drake in line.

  Drake swiped at the envelope. Jimmy beat him to it, flipping it over to reveal Drake's name scrawled in angry red lipstick. He opened his knife, slit the bottom and slid the contents onto the table. This time the photos were smeared with what looked like blood, a few drops thicker, others with the edges spread thin like real blood did when it separated.

  "You didn't call?" Jimmy asked Andy as he shuffled through the photos, taking care not to smudge any possible prints. Not that there would be. This actor was smarter than that.

  Drake didn't bother more than an initial glance to make sure there was nothing new besides the blood. Same old, same old. Pictures of him looking dead, lying in his own blood, autopsy and crime scene photos of Pamela, her face blown off, the gun—his gun—near her hand, the rumpled bed they shared that night.

  "Didn't know I needed to," Andy replied, obviously miffed at playing catch up.

  "This one," Jimmy nodded to Drake, "thought he could handle it on his own. Was just getting ready to fill in his partner." He stressed the last word as if it might be a temporary position.

  "When did they start?" Andy asked. He and Jimmy
stared at Drake like Drake was a witness. A victim. Anything but a fellow cop.

  Drake glared into his untouched coffee, too tired to even lift it to his lips to drink, and told them everything.

  "And you have no idea who might be behind it?" Andy asked.

  "No. Well, some ideas, nothing concrete—"

  "Did Pamela have any family?"

  "A sister. I never met her. Lived in California. I never knew about her except she was listed in the obituary." It wasn't like Drake had attended the funeral of the woman he helped kill.

  He'd wanted to. Almost did until Jimmy talked him out of it. Told him it might help Drake's guilt but it wouldn't help Pamela's family. Now he wished he had gone, if only to have a visual memory of the people in Pamela's life.

  "What about Spanos?" Andy put in. "He was with Pamela before you."

  "Yeah. I thought about him." Drake heaved his shoulders in a shrug. "Can't find anything to tie him to this." He swept his hand at the photos. "So far there's been no evidence. But maybe with the blood—"

  "Don't be an idiot," Andy scoffed. "It will be chicken or cow's blood. Besides, no way can you get results back fast enough to help."

  "The actor knows that," Jimmy said thoughtfully. "Otherwise he'd have used the blood earlier to increase the intimidation factor."

  Drake was grateful Jimmy didn't say "fear factor." Although it sure as hell wasn't intimidation keeping him awake and worrying all night. "This morning there was an envelope waiting on Hart's front porch."

  "Shit. Does she know?" Andy asked.

  "No."

  Both men hunched their shoulders, ready to protect Hart.

  "I have a plan."

  "You're not using Hart as bait." Andy glowered at his former trainee.

  "Of course not." Drake found the energy to straighten and glare back. Andy broke it off first.

  "What's your plan?" Jimmy asked, playing peacemaker.

  "I'm taking Hart out of here. Tonight. Up to my aunt's house at the Lake. She'll be safe there while I come back to set a trap for…" He stalled. "For whomever."

  "Good plan. Except for one thing. You and Hart stay up at the Lake and I'll take care of this actor," Jimmy said, gathering the photos and sliding them back into the envelope.

  "No. This is about me. I'll—"

  "You can't investigate a case you're personally involved in. And this is about as personal as it gets."

  "Besides," Andy put in, "do you good, some time alone with Hart."

  "We won't be alone. My aunt and mother will be there."

  Andy and Jimmy exchanged glances. "So, where's the ring? How're you going to pop the question?" Andy asked while Jimmy beamed his approval.

  "Ring? No, I'm not—"

  "Sure you are. We can have the bachelor party right here."

  Drake pushed his coffee away, lay his head down on the table and groaned. Someone out there wanted to hurt him, and maybe Hart, and these two were planning wedding favors? Could this day get any worse?

  <><><>

  Cassie hugged Baby Jane to her chest, her other hand gripping the length of rebar as they climbed up the steps to the alley door. A primal drumbeat surged through her veins. After her disastrous marriage to Richard, she never dreamed of having children. The thought terrified her. The enormity. The responsibility.

  Yet, in this moment, the baby so light and warm bundled in her arms, she would die for Baby Jane. She knew it. Protecting Baby Jane filled her with the same fierce determination rushing to save a life did back in the ER.

  She reached the last step and crossed the threshold. Bright sunlight blinded her and she didn't have a hand free to shield her vision. As she blinked, the rumble of gangsta rap echoed through the narrow concrete canyon. Tony had backed his van into the alley to make for a quicker getaway. Just as he opened the side door and laid Athena inside, a black BMW with rims spinning sparks rolled into sight, blocking their escape.

  Tagger shouted a warning. Cassie stepped forward, hand with the rebar rising as if she could miraculously fly across the ten feet and protect him.

  The rat-tat-pop of semi-automatic and automatic fire cut through the air. Tagger dove to the ground. Cassie dropped her useless weapon and jumped back inside the doorway, both arms now holding Baby Jane.

  Naïve to think the Rippers would come at them with fists and warm bodies. Of course not. They'd retreat and return armed with Mac-10s spitting bullets.

  Tony returned fire with his pistol. Cassie dared to edge a glance beyond her cover. Bullets flew from above as well as from the car. That's when she realized. The car was black. Garfield Gangstas, GGs. The Rippers on rooftops returning fire.

  Leaving them hopelessly caught in the no man's land between the warring gangs.

  Cassie hugged the baby tight. No matter what, Baby Jane would survive.

  But it wasn't Baby Jane's face that floated in her vision. It was Mary Eamon's. The little girl Cassie couldn't save.

  Huddled in the dark, back against a charred cinder block wall, Cassie remembered the little three-year-old. Her blonde curls floated out around her head, her face so pale it blended in with the white sheets, still beautiful despite the blood tinged tube running down her nose and the other, larger tube taped to her mouth. Her naked body on the trauma stretcher, exposing Mary's terrible secrets to the world.

  As they'd cut away Mary's pink nightie, stained with blood and vomit and bile, the damage had been obvious. So obvious that one of the paramedics, a Lieutenant who'd seen the worse Pittsburgh had to offer, made a noise caught between a retch and a growl, balled his fists and turned for the door before Cassie intercepted him. His ears were scarlet with rage, body tense against the palm she placed on his chest, and she wasn't sure he wouldn't storm right through her.

  It took a beat. The only sounds in the room the whoosh of the respiratory therapist pumping air into Mary's chest and the steady rhythm of the cardiac monitor. Cassie stared at the man almost twice her size, felt his anger coil into a tight fist. "Help me help her."

  Slowly his eyes refocused and he nodded. Cassie turned back, her team knowing what to do, all hands feverishly working to save the little girl who'd already been through Hell.

  In the end, when they'd lost Mary, the Lieutenant vomited into the scrub sink.

  The gunfire in the alley increased, snapping Cassie back to the present. The barrage of noise made Cassie curl her body over Baby Jane's even tighter. Then, sudden silence. The smell of gunpowder mingled with the other odors of the Stackhouse. The heat and humidity added weight to the stink, clogging Cassie's lungs.

  "We want the girl!" a man shouted.

  Cassie risked a glance beyond the threshold. Tagger had crawled under the van, now riddled with bullet holes, while Tony had positioned himself with the engine block between himself and the GG's car.

  "C'mon out, Athena! You know what we want!"

  Athena. They were after Athena. What could a pregnant teen have that the Gangstas were willing to kill for?

  Gunfire erupted from above as Tagger made his move and jumped into the van. Whatever Athena had, the Rippers were also willing to kill for. Or they were pissed at the outsiders trespassing on their turf. Or maybe it was simply too damn hot and target practice made them feel better.

  Whatever the hell it was, Cassie wasn't about to wait around to see. Tagger pushed open the rear van door and beckoned her. Tony fired at the Rippers above, providing cover. Cassie hauled in a breath and ran for it, crouching low to the ground, body between Baby Jane and the bullets.

  Sirens screamed in the distance, but neither the Rippers nor the Gangstas seemed to care. Tagger slammed the door as soon as Cassie cleared it. Tony jumped into the driver's seat and gunned the engine. In reverse. "Hang on!"

  Athena lay motionless on the floor, blood seeping from between her legs. Cassie clutched the baby tight with one hand and tried to hold on to Athena with the other. Tagger's one arm dangled useless, tears of pain streaking his face, but he didn't make a noise as he grabbed
the inside door handle.

  "Were you hit?" Cassie asked, reaching for his arm. There was no blood, but it was obviously broken.

  He shook his head. "Fell."

  Tony finished reversing then rammed the gearshift into drive and took off, tires peeling, aiming directly at the Gangsta's BMW blocking their way.

  The windshield cracked as bullets hit it, but the BMW's driver must have cared more for his car than stopping them because at the last possible moment he tore off down the street, one tire bumping over the curve as the van clipped his rear bumper.

  The van took the corner too fast. Cassie's stomach lurched into freefall, the floor and ceiling tilted as the van's wheels left the ground, then bumped back down to earth.

  "Next stop, Three Rivers," Tony shouted.

  His only answer was the gurgle of Baby Jane's cry.

  Chapter 10

  When they returned to the House, Jimmy took all of Drake's notes and sequestered himself in the interview room, his favorite hideout when he needed to get work done—leaving Drake to field the routine stuff, including a phone call from Monica Burns asking him what brand of locks to buy.

  After half an hour fending off her inane questions and hints at meeting outside of work, he finally referred her to Tony Spanos' security company, hoping maybe she'd transfer her attention to the ex-cop. He was still pissed at Spanos for the scene with Hart this morning at the Liberty Center, figured he owed Spanos a little payback.

  Just as Drake was seriously considering leaving early, Jimmy returned. "Think I got a line on your stalker."

  Drake looked up, made sure no one was within listening distance. Everyone was out, seeking solace by grabbing any case that took them inside air conditioned comfort.

  "That was quick," he said, wondering how Jimmy could have a lead when all Drake had was dead ends.

  "This actor knows you. Too well. He knew you'd keep it quiet, knew how you'd investigate it. Looking into the evidence logs, checking with the coroner's office. So I did exactly the opposite of what you would have done."