Face to Face

by CJ Lyons

  Drake opened the cellar door. No sounds of Hart pounding her heavy bag, no clank of weights, not even the rumble of the washer or dryer.

  She was gone.

  The trilling of his cell phone echoed through the empty house. He dashed into the living room, grabbed the phone from the end table where it sat alongside his weapon.

  "Drake here."

  "Where are you?" Jimmy's voice was harsh and way too loud for a Sunday morning.

  Drake winced and held the phone farther away. "At Hart's. Why are you shouting?"

  "Stay there. Kwon's on her way."

  "Kwon? What the hell—"

  "Where'd you leave your car last night, DJ?"

  He stopped to consider the answer. He remembered staggering away from the Stone after the fight with Spanos, but he didn't remember driving anywhere. Probably good thing, drunk as he was. "Parked at the Stone. I think."

  "You think?" Jimmy's voice barked out of the small phone. "You'd damned well better be sure before Kwon gets there."

  What the hell was going on? This wasn't Jimmy—his partner got quieter the busier, more tired he was. Even after a weekend on call for the squad, he'd never be this upset. And what the hell did his car have to do with anything? Surely he hadn't driven it, hit someone?

  His stomach roiled at the idea. Then he had a clear image of Kenny, the bartender, taking his keys and hanging them on the rack behind the bar.

  "It's definitely at the Stone," he told Jimmy. "Ask Kenny, he cut me off and took my keys."

  "Was that before or after you and Spanos fought over that Burns woman?"

  Aw hell, Jimmy already knew about that. No wonder he was pissed. Drake screwed up royally, might even be hauled up on charges with Spanos now a civilian. Which wouldn't reflect well on his partner. "Before. Is Spanos pressing charges?"

  "Who the hell cares? This isn't about some barroom brawl, kid. This is about murder."

  CHAPTER 24

  Janet Kwon was none too happy about being woken on her Sunday off to play chauffeur to Drake. Jimmy caught the case, since he was the detective on call for the weekend, but as soon as he realized Drake was involved, he turfed it to the next detective in rotation, Webster, and called in Janet along with her partner, Eric Summers, for backup.

  "Let's get this fucking right before Internal Affairs fucks it up," Janet parodied Jimmy's Marine drill-instructor voice. "And before Miller ships us all off to fucking Siberia."

  Of course, Kwon wasn't the only unhappy police officer today. The head of the Major Crimes Squad, Commander Sarah Miller, and the guys from Internal Affairs called in on their day off weren't too thrilled either. Not to mention the Assistant Chief, the press officer, or the union rep Jimmy called to protect Drake's rights and who would be meeting Drake at headquarters for a talk with IAD.

  It was only made worse by the fact that Drake knew with certainty the black humor that would accompany this routine of violent death.

  "Jimmy was sure it was Monica Burns?"

  "Found her purse and Spanos ID'd her from last night at the Stone." Kwon cut him a glare assigning him to a special hell for cops who went out and got drunk with vulnerable victims.

  "It wasn't like that." A weak protest, mainly because he was too busy beating himself up for being an idiot. He'd been upset he'd almost gotten Hart killed, angry at Burns, angrier at the stalker turning his life upside down, but it was just downright stupidity that had made him take that first drink. He knew better.

  "Not what I heard."

  "What'd you hear?"

  She hesitated. She couldn't tell him anything relevant to the case, of course. Technically he was a suspect—although he thought that wouldn't last long. Jimmy would see through the bullshit and keep things on track, even if he did have to do it from the sidelines.

  "Heard you clocked Tony Spanos. Good."

  Drake smiled at that. His knuckles were red and sore as hell, but damn, it was worth it, putting that bastard down. "Yep."

  If only Spanos was the actor. That would wrap everything up in a nice, neat package. But Drake knew it wouldn't be that easy.

  The only good thing was that Isaiah Steward was on call this weekend for the ME. The assistant medical examiner was the best in the business, nobody could match him for thoroughness or persistence.

  Gee, so much to look forward to, Drake thought as Kwon escorted him into Internal Affair's interview room where Hansen, his union lawyer, waited.

  The room was twice the size as the one in their own station house. It was obvious this was where high profile suspects came to be interviewed. The chairs were upholstered instead of rickety refugees from a backyard patio and there was a sophisticated video recording set up on the far end. No expense spared in the pursuit of corrupt cops. Drake's squad merely handled crimes against persons, minor things like homicide, assault, kidnapping and rape.

  The IA guys kept them waiting, par for the course. Hansen didn't seem to mind, except for moving his chair as far away as possible from the reek of liquor wafting from Drake's dirty clothing. The union paid the lawyer by the hour. The clock ran even as Hansen pulled the Sunday crossword puzzle from his briefcase.

  Drake settled in, his drumming fingers the only outward sign of his impatience. Hansen looked up in annoyance at the ratatattat of the Stone's Sympathy for the Devil, so Drake kept it up, shifting into Jim Morrison and LA Woman and adding an accompanying humming. Didn't want to disappoint his fans.

  Drake was familiar with IA's routine. Almost comforting in its predictability. Last year after Pamela's death he'd been kept waiting. Next came a monotonous repetition of questions interspersed with personal commentary and insults. Even though Drake had been cleared of any wrongdoing and he was the last person to defend corrupt cops, he fully appreciated why IA was nicknamed the rat squad.

  Their routine didn't change today. Even the faces remained the same: Justin Sandosky and Carlos Ventura, two politically savvy detectives who didn't have the street smarts of a Liberty Avenue whore.

  "Drake?" Sandosky said loudly from outside the open door of the interview room. "That can't be Detective Rembrandt Michael Drake, the sorry assed punk we almost nailed last year, can it? Surely some other woman didn't accidentally get shot with his gun?"

  "Now, now," Ventura put in, "accidents do happen. Over and over again, even."

  "Especially if you're a drunken piece of shit like Drake," Sandosky finished. They sauntered into the room, each with a cup of coffee in his hand. "Why, hello Drake. Didn't realize you were already in here," Sandosky said in a saccharine tone as he and Ventura sat down at the large conference table.

  Hansen took his cue, carefully folded his newspaper and slid it into his briefcase. "Let the record show," he began as the video officer appeared and switched the equipment on, " my client is here voluntarily to answer any reasonable questions placed to him. He understands his rights and has agreed to cooperate fully to the best of his knowledge and ability."

  "Yeah right," Ventura muttered under his breath. "Glad my track record with women isn't as bad as yours, Drake."

  Drake held his tongue, turning away from the camera to give the IA detective an eat-shit-and-die smile. The only challenge with these two would be to see if Drake could worm the information he wanted from them before they ran out of jibes. Drake worried these two excuses for detectives probably hadn't even noted the important details about the crime scene and so might not have the answers Drake needed.

  If they didn't, Isaiah and Jimmy would, Drake told himself. Just had to get through this and buy them some time. He gritted his teeth with impatience as the pair from IA began to fire their questions in what they thought was an intimidating style designed to wear their subject down.

  Drake was worn down as he went through the routine questions about his movements last night. But it was from hunger and lack of sleep more than anything. Being passed out drunk most of the night and half of the day didn't make up for missing real sleep. This was definitely the worst hangover of his
life. He had to navigate his mind around gaping holes in his memory while fighting a raging headache.

  He answered the questions automatically. Thankfully they were predictable, most of his energy focused on using the clues they gave him to re-create the crime scene in his mind.

  Why the roof? When the actor couldn't get into Drake's apartment, why not just kill her on the steps or one of the lower floors. Unless they needed to use the elevator?

  Drake's mind skidded to a halt, causing his automatic answers to the IA detective's questions to falter. Richard King. He'd gotten into the clinic before. And he'd have to use the elevator.

  Ventura pounced on Drake's hesitation. "So you don't remember what time you left the Blarney Stone?" he demanded in a dramatic tone as if he was unmasking the fatal flaw in Drake's diabolic scheme.

  "It hasn't changed since the past two times I told you," Drake repeated. "I left a little after nine. The bartender and Spanos can confirm it."

  "Yeah, well, we're checking that out," Ventura muttered, upset to be upstaged by Drake's calm attitude.

  "I need a break," Drake told them, getting to his feet. "Where's the john?"

  "We're not done here," Sandosky protested.

  "We'll tell you when you can leave," Ventura added.

  Drake ignored them and left the room. Behind him, he heard Hansen reminding the IA detectives Drake was there of his own volition and could terminate the interview anytime he wanted.

  The men's room was down the hall. After using the facilities he washed his hands and face then held his fingers under the cold water trying to keep the swelling down.

  King was a maniac. No matter what Hart said about his trying to redeem himself, being changed, Drake knew better. But no one would suspect a man confined to a wheelchair of stalking Drake or killing Monica Burns.

  And Burns herself. Her behavior last night had been so erratic. Like she'd do anything to keep Drake there with her.

  Drake left the men's room. Ventura waited in the corridor and fell into step beside Drake as he proceeded towards the interview room. But instead of going inside, Drake kept going down the hall towards the Internal Affairs Division office.

  "Where the hell you going, Drake?" the IA detective demanded. Drake ignored him, entering the office and perching himself on the corner of a desk as he picked up the phone.

  "Hey, that's my phone! What the fuck you think you're doing?"

  Drake just placed a finger to his lips as he dialed Hart's number. No answer at her house. Shit. He reached for the phone to dial Jimmy's cell number when Ventura grabbed his arm.

  "Enough of this bullshit! There's nothing that says I've got to let you make any phone calls."

  "Assaulting a suspect–that's something Internal Affairs will need to investigate," Drake said, easily wrenching his arm out of Ventura's pudgy grasp.

  "Fuck you, Drake," Ventura shot back, revealing his rapier sharp wit.

  As Drake dialed Jimmy his gaze roamed Ventura's desk. A framed family portrait occupied center stage. He picked up the photo. Ventura smiling so wide his eyes almost disappeared into his cheeks. His arm around the shoulders of a sullen faced teenaged girl with lanky brown hair and a bad case of acne. Beside them stood a round-faced woman wearing thick-lensed glasses with hair so yellow it had to be a dye job gone bad.

  "Nice of you to take a picture with your dear old mom," Drake said as Ventura snatched the photo from his grasp. "Is that sweet young thing your wife, Ventura? Didn't know you had it in you."

  The other detective's face turned crimson with anger and Drake was surprised he didn't throw a punch in Drake's direction. Before Ventura could send any wayward synapses in the direction of his fist, Drake turned his back on him, listening as Jimmy came on the line.

  Background noise that could only be coming from an autopsy in progress accompanied Jimmy. Drake didn't want to know what favors Jimmy had called in order to be present at the post mortem or to get it started so fast. He was certain he'd hear about them sooner or later when it was time to collect. "Dolan."

  Ventura grabbed the extension on the other desk in the office, listening in. Drake didn't care.

  "It's Drake. Along with Detective Ventura from IAD. I need you to do something for me," Drake told Jimmy. "Find Hart and get her somewhere safe."

  "I think she's still with Summers, going over her statement. But I'll check."

  "Tell her to stay away from King."

  Jimmy knew about Richard King and Drake's many reasons for hating the man. "Really? Think he might be a player in all this?"

  "Not sure. Just one more thing to look into." Drake asked, frustrated he couldn't say more with IAD listening in. Who knew how they'd use King against him? But he was confident Jimmy would fill in the blanks. "What'd they get from Spanos?"

  "Dunno," Jimmy replied. "Webster has him. Thought I'd be more useful down here."

  "Right." Drake paused. He wanted to thank Jimmy for watching his back, but not with Ventura on the line. "Anything on the tox screen?"

  "Like what?"

  Ventura leaned forward, waiting for Drake to incriminate himself. Hell with it. "Like maybe rohypnol?" Another thought penetrated the haze that permeated Drake's brain. "Or maybe in her personal possessions?"

  "You think she used it on someone else or someone gave it to her?" Jimmy asked.

  Drake shook his head in frustration and immediately regretted the new headache the movement unleashed. "I don't know."

  Rohypnol and other drugs like it only lasted a few hours after ingestion and were almost impossible to detect, so it was too late for Drake to be tested. But maybe the autopsy could still pick it up.

  "I'll have Steward check for it and call the guys to look for anything suspicious in her belongings."

  "Thanks. Tell Hart I'll call her."

  "What makes you think she'll want to talk to you?" Jimmy asked.

  Drake knew it was a jibe, Jimmy's way of pretending Hart had nothing more to worry about than their fight last night.

  "Just find her, Jimmy, okay?" Drake told his partner, in no mood for any more banter and not caring his tone had an edge of desperation to it.

  "Don't worry, partner. I'm on it." Jimmy hung up.

  "So who's this King?" Ventura asked, moving back down the hall at Drake's heels like a pet terrier. "And what's with the rohypnol? You saying you drugged Burns? That's pretty sick, even for a loser like you."

  Drake ignored him and wearily resumed the tedious answering of questions. Sparring with the IAD guys, buying time for Jimmy to find the answers they needed, wasn't fun anymore. When Ventura unveiled the crime scene photos of Burns' face and body in all their blood glory, all Drake could see was Hart.

  CHAPTER 25

  Spending the day being interviewed and questioned and sitting, waiting for more interviewing and questioning and sitting, left Cassie more exhausted than an entire day of hanging drywall in the clinic. Much less worrying about Drake and what he was going through.

  Thankfully, they finally sent her home around six o'clock. When she got there, her answering machine was blinking fast enough to induce seizures. Messages from reporters, Tony asking if she was okay, Lisa Dimeo reminding her about testifying in the morning—like she could forget the fate of Mary Eamon's killer rested in her hands—and a final one from Richard.

  Richard. Jimmy Dolan passed Drake's message to her about not trusting him. As if her ex and his proposal were the most important things on Drake's mind. More important than being framed for murder.

  She punched the button to hear his message. "Cassandra. It's me. I just heard. I wanted to make sure you were safe. If you want, you can stay with me. No strings. We need to talk. I'm worried about you. Alan, he—well, never mind, we can discuss that later. Just call me. Let me know you're all right. I love you."

  The dial tone flat lined. She raised the handset, hesitated. Then called Drake. His phone went straight to voice mail. She hung up without leaving a message. What would she say? Ask him what really hap
pened in the bar last night with Monica Burns? Yell at him for getting drunk and fighting with Tony? Or beg him to come back so they could work everything out.

  Maybe the first two. Definitely the last.

  She showered, fed the cat, and he still hadn't called. Could they have actually arrested him? Maybe he was in a detention cell somewhere?

  She sank down onto the sofa, pulling Gram Rosa's quilt around her. It was hot enough she wore only shorts and a tank top, but she needed the comfort the generations-old hand sewn heirloom offered. Having Drake's arms around her would have been better. But if he was being detained then at least he was safe.

  That thought took her into sleep.

  <><><>

  Cassie wasn't sure what woke her. She sat up on the couch, disoriented, surprised she wasn't in her own bed. The cat screeched from somewhere in the rear of the house.

  "Hennessey?" Cassie called. Had she forgotten to feed the poor thing? She wrapped the quilt around her and walked towards the kitchen. Then she stopped.

  A thin beam of light danced through the air. Someone outside the kitchen window.

  The cat raced past her. Cassie tiptoed towards the phone halfway between her and the kitchen. Before she could reach it, glass crashed, showering over the kitchen floor. Followed by something bright and on fire flying through the air where the window had been.

  Cassie turned and raced towards the front door but only made it as far as the living room when the explosion hit.

  She felt it more than heard it. A wall of air more solid than steel slapped her body. The strange, rock hard wind sucked the breath from her lungs and her ears roared with pressure.

  Cassie slammed into the couch. When she opened her eyes the room was lit by tendrils of flame racing along the heavily polished hard wood floors and up her bookcases and drapes and onto the ceiling. She looked in the direction of the kitchen. Like looking into the mouth of hell.

  Cassie dropped to the floor, holding the heavy quilt around her body. Glass crackled as shards flew through the air like shrapnel as tendrils of flame rushed over to her, licking at her flesh and Rosa's quilt.