Nerves of Steel (20 page)

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 thundered 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 wait 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.

"Sarah's gone," the other boy said, clearly wishing the same fate on Cassie.  He slipped the girl's legs onto his lap, moving her bare feet over his crotch.  The girl giggled, her head drooping forward as the two men smiled at each other.

"I know.  She's in a coma at Three Rivers."  Cassie shifted her weight, calculated the distance to the door.  How could she get this girl out of here before something happened?   "I'm trying to find out who she is so we can notify her parents."

"You a cop? Social worker?" the first boy snapped, his disdain for either profession clear.

She considered lying, thinking it might intimidate them into releasing the inebriated girl.  The second boy raised the girl's foot to his mouth and began sucking on her toes, making her squirm in delight.

"What if I was?" Cassie hedged, uncomfortable with these budding sociopaths.  Was their behavior the result of drugs or something more pernicious, like the complete lack of a conscience?

The first boy shrugged, his hand opening the girl's blouse, exposing her breasts.  "We'd still let you join in on the fun if you wanted."  His eyes gleamed with anticipation.  "Or," his tongue flicked over his lips, "we could just watch you and Sherry here."

Cassie got to her feet, hauled the girl up with her. The girl was still giggling, her body a dead weight as she struggled to find her balance.

"How about if Sherry and I just go now." 

"Then you'd have to discuss the matter with me," a sober voice came from the doorway.

She whirled, dragging Sherry with her.  A large, stocky man filled the doorway.  He gestured at the two younger men, and they got to their feet and sidled past him, back out into the crowd.  Cassie stared at him.  She recognized this man.  From Three Rivers.

"I know you," he said slowly, ignoring Sherry and focusing his attention on Cassie.  "You're Richard King's wife."

Orthopedics, that was where she'd seen him.  He was an orderly on Orthopedics, worked with Richard, sometimes came down to the ER to help with fracture patients.  What was his name?  Victor Trautman, that was it.  T-man.

"You checking up on the Mister?" he asked, his head cocked to one side.  "He ain't gonna be too happy about that."  He nodded to Sherry.  "Why don't you let her sleep it off?  I think we need to talk, Dr. Hart."

She looked around the room.  Everyone else studiously ignored them.  No help there. 

"Is Richard here?" she asked, assuming a worried tone.  "This is his niece.  I came to get her before something happened.  If you just help me get her outside, I have my car waiting."  She poured every ounce of sincerity into her performance.   Trautman wavered for a moment, then his eyes hardened.

"Don't ever play poker, Dr. Hart," he said.  "You can't lie for shit."  He pulled a large chrome plated gun from his waistband.  "Drop the girl.  Let's go for a walk."

Cassie stared at the gun.  Despite the room's chilly temperature, sweat began to pool under her sweater.  Sherry squirmed in her grasp, severely limiting their defensive options.  But Trautman didn't seem interested in the girl, only Cassie.

Confident of his superior position, Trautman stepped forward, and Cassie saw her opening.  She pushed Sherry at him and darted through the door back into the maelstrom of music and gyrating bodies.